Random Words of Wisdom
by Constantinus
Summary: A series of one-shots inspired by dialogue from the films and TV series, in no particular order. Various genres, mostly humor. Chapter 37: Ideas. From Riders of Berk, Episode 5: In Dragons We Trust.
1. Chapter 1: Pulling My Weight

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon, Tuffnut, Ruffnut, and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p>Chapter 1: Pulling My Weight<p>

"A yak's gotta' do what a yak's gotta' do."

Well, that's what they say isn't it? Don't you forget it, 'cause it's true; believe me, I know.

It all happened a few years ago, when mom decided I was useless and needed to start pulling my weight. If she'd stuck to the weight-pulling part, everything would've been fine: Ruffnut's my weight, and she's easy to pull. But no, there were other jobs, like pulling water, pulling weeds, pulling yak udders. She doesn't call it that, she calls it milking the yaks, but it's the all the same thing. By the way, yak udder-pulling is way harder than it looks.

Anyway, this is how it happened: armed with the weapons of a weight-puller (milk pail: check, three-legged stool: check), mom sent me to milk the yaks. But, as they say, you can lead a fish to water, but you can't make it swim. Wait, is that how it goes? I don't remember; must be something like that. Whatever.

By the way, I should take this moment to say that yaks are really hairy, and those udders are kinda' hard to see through all that hair. They're kinda' like Ruffnut: she has a lot of hair too. So, I sat down on my three-legged stool next to the first yak and started digging through all the hair. Nope, no udder, and that yak sounded a little upset with me.

Next yak, same thing: no udder. The third yak did have an udder, but as soon as I found it, she ran off. I chased her around for a while, but she got away. She might have fallen off a cliff for all I know.

The fourth yak was different: calm, gentle, kinda' like that lullaby Fishlegs sings to his dragon. Once again I sat down on my three-legged stool, set the milk-pail on the ground, and started pulling.

The next thing I knew, my helmet and I were tumbling through the air in different directions, sent flying by a massive kick from that yak's hooves. The animal in question had returned to quietly munching grass as if nothing had happened. But my three-legged stool was in splintered ruins and I never found the milk-pail.

When mom asked me about milking later that night, there were no words to describe what had happened. A yak's gotta' do what a yak's gotta' do, and in my opinion, there's no human way of stopping it.

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><p><strong>After my trial runs with "Better on Paper" and "The All-Nighter," this will be a series of one-shots inspired by lines of dialogue, verbal exchanges, and conversations from the films and TV series. If you have a request or an idea for a particular line or conversation you would like to see treated in this series, please send it to me via PM (also, please tell me where you got it, so I can get the context). I greatly appreciate constructive criticism. <strong>


	2. Chapter 2: What's in a Nickname?

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p>Chapter 2: What's in a Nickname?<p>

Life in Berk is difficult. Nearly every task and activity that occupies our time and strength is related to our survival on this tiny, inhospitable island. We labor and strive for our daily bread in close proximity to our neighbors every day. It is for this reason that we have no hierarchy of blood ranking or family power. Yet we recognize a chief, for every society must submit to the protection and governance of one individual in order to maintain a mutually beneficial way of life. Such has been our way for generations.

But the chieftaincy of Berk is based on the individual's contribution to the group: qualities such as leadership, courage, a strong work ethic, physical prowess, and personal achievement are highly valued, so much so that no man can be considered for chieftaincy without them. Thus, the passing of the rod of authority from one chieftain to another is not necessarily a hereditary action. For this reason, among others, most of the villagers of Berk can claim a chief somewhere in their family's bloodline. My family is no different.

My great-great-great-great-grandfather, Bludlust Hofferson, was one of the first and fiercest chieftains of Berk. Our legends tell of his great deeds, how he drove the dragons back night after night and raid after raid; how he explored the furthest reaches of our island and those nearby; how he fought off the attacks of hostile tribes and cunningly forestalled treachery within his own; and most of all, how he wielded his mighty battleaxe like a whirlwind of power. Every Hofferson since has favored the battleaxe: it is a symbol of our history and our time of leadership. It is also my own most prized possession.

No-one in the village remembers the days of Bludlust's supremacy; but Gothi, our elder, the oldest among us, has said that no Hofferson in her memory (and no other villager, for that matter) could wield the axe as I do.

Imagine my chagrin then when Snotlout heard about that particular statement. For days on end, he wouldn't let it go.

"So, Hiccup, what are you gonna' do when Astrid becomes the next chief?" Snotlout taunted, casually leaning against the saddle on Hookfang's neck.

"That's not up to me, Snotlout," Hiccup replied evenly as he examined the delicate mechanism connecting Toothless' fin to the saddle. "The new chief will be whoever my dad decides is the best."

"Berk's never had a chief who was a girl," Ruffnut piped up. "That would be cool."

"No it wouldn't," Tuffnut protested. "If Astrid becomes chief, she'll probably make us take baths everyday."

Ruffnut dug an elbow into his side. "That would be the best chiefly act ever!"

"Listen up, all of you!" I shouted. Fishlegs opened his mouth to speak, but I'd had enough of the conversation already. "That means you too, Fishlegs." He shut his mouth quickly.

"It doesn't matter what Gothi said, or what any of you think: I'm not going to be chief, so I don't want to hear another word on the subject. Understood?" Mute nods gave me all the answer I needed, and my peers began filing out of the arena one by one. Hiccup lingered, waiting until the others had left.

"You know," he said, "you could put down any kind of trouble in the village just with that tone of voice."

I punched him in the arm for that. "Ow!" he exclaimed, rubbing it gingerly. "What was that for?"

"You heard what I said, Hiccup," I replied sternly. "The subject is closed."

Hiccup looked at the ground for a moment and I wondered if I'd overdone the punch. Then he looked up, grinned at me cheekily, and said, "Understood, . . . m'lady!"

Apparently that's his nickname for me now: M'lady Hofferson, the chief who wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3: On the Subject of Sandwiches

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p>"Wouldn't it be great if bread came already sliced? Then you could enjoy a little bit of it at a time."<p>

"Think of the sandwiches you could make!"

Sandwiches? That is an intriguing thought. I like sandwiches, and they like me. Meatlug likes them too. Quartz on granite, with a litle sandstone on the side. She loves it! As for me, I'm not upset when lunch consists of a nice, fat cod between two big chunks of black bread. But sliced bread? I'm not so sure about that.

First of all, we're Vikings: we like grabbing a loaf of bread and just tearing into it. Secondly, some people, and I mention no names here, don't eat that much at a time and their bread gets really hard after it sits for a while. Third, and most importantly, a nice, big, juicy fish just wouldn't fit between slices. Really.

So, Tuffnut, as is usually the case with your crazy ideas, we won't be taking a vote on it. Sliced bread? No thank you. It'll never happen. Not ever. And I would be prepared to swear to that on the Book of Dragons itself. And then recite the Book of Dragons cover to cover to prove the sincerity of my oath. But I don't need to, because the idea of sliced bread just doesn't deserve that much of my time.

And neither does your plan to blast the boulders off the Scauldron's wing.


	4. Chapter 4: Lamb for Dinner

"Interested in a lamb dinner on the way home?"

After that incident with the twins and the sheep, I was looking forward to eating lamb for a long time. And enjoying every mouthful.

Of course, Hiccup wasn't all that interested; but you know, with Hiccup, unlike Astrid, if you keep asking he'll eventually cave in. And Gustav is always hungry. Against the two of us, Hiccup didn't stand a chance.

So, our little adventure on Outcast Island concluded, we ended up on top of a sea stack somewhere in the middle of nowhere, preparing a delicious lamb dinner. Or at least trying to.

Hey, it wasn't my fault the fire wouldn't start. Even after all the help I've tried to give him, Hiccup still doesn't understand about being prepared for things. So, we had the lamb, we had the firewood, but did we have any rain protection?

Yes, it rained. Actually it poured. So when Hiccup said "We're leaving," for once I agreed with him.

Which is how we ended up on Dragon Island in the middle of a thunder storm with no rain protection and both lamb and firewood soaked through. Oh, Hookfang tried to get a fire started; so did Toothless and Fanghook. Apparently, not even dragon fire will burn wet logs.

Thing's got a lot worse when the wild dragons started showing up. Like I said, Hiccup's never prepared for anything. Did he even think to bring some dragon nip along? Nope.

But hey, we still had the lamb. It may have been soaking wet and cold, but the wild dragons ate it, no questions asked, and we made a quick getaway. Don't thank me too profusely for saving your life, Hiccup.

And no, I am not telling the chief why we were so late getting back or why we were soaked. If you insist on telling your dad, Hiccup, then fine, be like that. But remember, it wasn't my fault.

By the way, soaking wet lamb is disgusting. So is broad-grass in your shorts.


	5. Chapter 5: Minorie-Majorie

**A/N: This one is a bit longer, but I had ever so much fun writing it. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p>Did I ever tell you about the time I found myself up against the man-eating metal masons of Minorie-Majorie? It was spring; the smell of fresh jasmine was in the air, and the maidens of the Punjab danced beside the Yungshu river. They wore the finest silks in all the colors of the earth, sea, and sky, and their black hair fell to their feet and swayed as they danced.<p>

The tallest and most beautiful of the maidens beckoned to me as she danced, and I joined her, for she wore the priceless bangles of the metal masons, the richest and most powerful guild of Minorie-Majorie. Such metal-workers as you can never imagine, master Hiccup! To them, iron was worthless, for they were the crafters of metals both stronger and more beautiful, and they kept their secrets closely guarded. If I could purchase even one tiny bauble or ear-ring from the metal masons, I could sell it here in the North and never need to trade again.

So I danced with the maiden of the Punjab beside the Yungshu river, and her bangles made their own music, glittering in the light of the sun and ringing like the sweetest bells of Avaranthe.

It was only later that I learned that it was against the laws of Minorie-Majorie to dance with the maidens of the Punjab. I was arrested, and taken before the feet of the Great Majorie himself. And master Hiccup, if you think your father is tall and imposing, you have no idea of the greatness of the Great Majorie. His voice was like thunder and he was crowned with the lightning of Thor. His great black beard fell to the tips of his toes, and when he spoke his voice shook the rafters.

He pronounced a sentence of death upon my head, but he very courteously asked me if I had any last requests. Of course I had a last request: to see the workshop of the metal masons. My request was granted, and I was escorted to the workshop by the Great Majorie's guards.

In all my days, I have never seen such a sight! The finest tools and the largest forges, racks of shining armor and weapons, and boxes filled with the most exquisite jewelry. I was so enraptured by all of it that I didn't notice when the guards left, locking the doors behind them. But I did notice when one of the metal masons arrived.

He was huge, master Hiccup, half man and half monster, with the hands of an artist and the jaws of a wild dog. He rushed at me, howling in rage, but I slipped away, attempting to escape. Too late! For another had entered the workshop. This one was shorter, but with a great barrel of a chest and skin reddened by the heat of the forge; his mouth was like a giant bellows. The second mason tried to trip my feet as I ran, but I was too quick for him.

I ran, ducking their fiery breath and dodging tools and anvils. They chased me 'round and 'round the workshop and finally into a corner: I was trapped, but just when I thought all hope was lost, I leaped out the window straight into the Yungshu river.

I swam, diving as deep as I could to avoid the metal masons. When I reached the bottom of the river, I found two oysters of incomparable size. Gathering them into my hands, I swam upwards and found myself once again gazing on the maidens of the Punjab as they danced. But this time I didn't stay: I took my two oysters and made my escape as quickly as I could.

And what was inside the two oysters I found? You may well ask: in addition to the finest seafood meal I have ever eaten, there were also two perfect pearls, one like a summer sunset, and the other like the dawn of a winter morn. They were far more beautiful than any dancing maidens, and I consider myself to have come out on top of that encounter.

But let me warn you, master Hiccup: beware the man-eating metal masons of Minorie-Majorie, where the maidens dance on the banks of the Yungshu river and the air is filled with the scent of jasmine, for they guard their secrets with the ferocity of wild animals.


	6. Chapter 6: Take 'Em Down, Babe

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p><em>For those who wonder why Astrid calls Hiccup 'Babe', this is why. <em>

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><p>"Ouch!"<p>

The needle was made of fishbone, thick at one end, and blunt at the other. Ignoring my protests, Astrid continued her ministrations. She handles a needle the same way she handles her axe: cleanly, efficiently, and with brutal precision.

I'm not sure I really needed stitches though; it was just a scratch, after all, a minor injury sustained during a training mishap. We're Vikings: it's an occupational hazard. Besides, the needle hurt more than the actual cut. Astrid poked me again, hard, and I couldn't restrain a yelp. Toothless' eyes narrowed, but he stayed where he was; he knows the difference between irritation and actual danger.

"Don't be such a baby, Hiccup," she chided teasingly, before knotting the thick twine and stepping back to survey her handiwork. "You've lost a foot, stitches should be nothing to you."

"Well, I wasn't exactly conscious when the foot came off," I muttered darkly, turning my head to inspect the injury. Toothless raised his head and sniffed it experimentally before lying back down. I have to admit, Astrid would make an excellent seamstress: the stitches were small and even, the skin only the tiniest bit puckered. It itched, though, and I rubbed at it.

"Don't rub it," she said, using _that _tone of voice, "and no heavy lifting with that arm. You'll only make it hurt worse."

"Define worse," I huffed.

She relented then, stepping forward and kissing me on the cheek. "I'm sorry it hurts, Hiccup," she said gently. "Just go easy on it for a few days. Until the stitches come out."

"Yes, doctor," I replied sarcastically. "I'll take to my bed and hide my face until you give the word. And what's more, Toothless will guard the door."

"Will he be keeping others out or keeping you in?" she asked, picking up her axe and twirling it.

"He'll be protecting me from women with needles," I countered as Toothless rose, stretched languidly and lumbered over to stand beside me.

She smiled at that and punched me lightly in the uninjured shoulder.

"Ow! What was that for?"

She shook her head at me. "You are such a baby."

"Will you let me fly target practice with Toothless tomorrow?" I asked, only half facetiously.

"If you can do it without hurting yourself," she said, her eyes narrowing. "I'll be watching you very closely. And cheering you on." She proceeded to demonstrate. "Go on, Hiccup babe, Astrid will look out for you."

"Why would you say that?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"What would you like me to say?" she responded. "Would you prefer 'You're the best, babe,' or 'Go get 'em, babe'? Or how about 'Take 'em down, babe'?"

"Astrid, Toothless and I can fly just fine without somebody watching us," I protested. "And we don't need a cheerleader."

"Well, somebody has to keep you out of trouble, you big baby."

How could I even argue with a statement like that?


	7. Chapter 7: Our Cousin Lars

**This chapter was suggested by Kathryn Elwin, to whom it is therefore dedicated. **

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 10: Heather Report, Part 1**

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><p>"You will not believe what I just found!" Snotlout shouted as Hookfang landed in the arena.<p>

"A severed head?" Tuffnut guessed.

"Our cousin Lars?" I added.

"Our cousin Lars's severed head?" Tuffnut elaborated.

I haven't thought about our cousin Lars in a long time; probably because he hasn't been around for a long time. At least, his head hasn't.

Lars was a cool dude: big arms, wide shoulders, tiny head. Sure, he wore a big helmet, but that was just for his hair. His hair was his best feature; he liked to wear it in massive dreadlocks stuffed under his helmet so his mom couldn't see it. I never asked him if that was really working out. Tuffnut had better never wear his in dreadlocks: mom would probably cut them off as soon as she saw them.

You know, other than the hair, Lars looked pretty much the same as every other guy in Berk. And that was what caused all the trouble.

He was out fishing one day with his pal Bruiser when a storm blew in and dumped buckets of hailstones big as dragon eggs all over the island. That was the coolest: Tuff and I sat up on the roof, watching the storm smash everything in the village and counting all the hailstones that hit our helmets. There was one that smashed Gothi's front door, and one that fell down Gobber's chimney, and then there were all the hailstones that trashed Mildew's cabbages. Best of all was the giant hailstone that knocked off Bucket's bucket. What a sight that was...

Anyway, back to Lars. Well, when the storm was over, the chief sent out one of the ships to collect all the fishing boats that blew loose and drifted out. They found Lars and Bruiser too. Only problem was, their heads were gone, knocked clean off by hailstones, and nobody could really tell which was which, or if it even was Lars and Bruiser. We gave them the old Viking send-off, nothing fancy. But they had to share the fishing boat. You see, Lars really wanted his pyre to be in that particular fishing boat. Sentimental, I guess. Bruiser never cared, and since they were pals, it seemed right to send them off together.

It's a shame; Lars was a cool dude. We never did find his head, but if we ever do, we'll know it by his dreadlocks.


	8. Chapter 8: Many Things

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p><strong>Here's a little angst for your Monday morning. <strong>

**From How to Train Your Dragon.**

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><p>"You are many things, Hiccup, but a dragon-killer is not one of them."<p>

Face it, son: as much as you want it, as much as I want it, you will never be a dragon-killer.

You think you're misunderstood, you think I never listen, you think I'm disappointed with you. Well, you're wrong to think so: I understand you perfectly, your desire to fit in, your eagerness to prove yourself, your determination to do whatever it takes no matter the cost to others. And I do listen to you: I have listened to your excuses, your arguments, and your bright-eyed, hare-brained schemes for nigh on fifteen years. And if you think I'm disappointed, well...you're right. But I'm not disappointed with you. I am disappointed with myself.

I have tried to bring you up right, Hiccup. I have tried to teach you what a Viking is, what he believes and how he behaves. I have tried to show you what a chief does for his people. But I have wronged you, because that is not what you are.

You are a troll-hunter, a map-maker, a blacksmith, and my son. You are inexplicable, impulsive, and ambitious. You are disobedient, sarcastic, awkward, and argumentative.

But you are a bright boy: when you cannot use your arms to solve a problem, you use your head instead. You are a hard-working boy: you should hear the way Gobber praises your diligence in the smithy. And you are a kind boy: when you cannot defeat your enemy, which is always the case, you try to make him your friend, even when you shouldn't.

But it was my responsibility to bring you up as a Viking, so you could defend yourself and our people, and I've failed. I've failed the village, because I would make you the next chief, but how can I now? And I've failed your mother, because I told her you would be the strongest of all of us, and now look at you. But most of all, I've failed you, because you look at my disappointment and think it is directed at you.

And what am I? I am a Viking who hasn't the courage to face the truth. A father who hasn't the courage to face his son. I am a failure in so many ways, and I only hope that someday, somehow, you will be a better man than I am.


	9. Chapter 9: Who You Are

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

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><p><strong>From How to Train Your Dragon 2. A companion to Chapter 8: Many Things. <strong>

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><p>"This gift we share, Hiccup, it bonds us. This is who you are, son. Who we are."<p>

I was wrong to stay away; I see that now. No matter how hard and violent life was in Berk, it would have been better for you, and your father, if I had come back. Perhaps the two of us, together, could have changed your father's mind: we could have ended the war so much sooner and saved so many lives. But I stayed away. And as you stand before me, full of life and energy, your dragon at your side, I know that it is my fault that both of you are maimed.

But Toothless harbors no grudge against you for his tail, and you harbor no grudge against me for leaving. You are far more forgiving than I could ever have hoped. And though I have been gone so long, there are gifts that I would bestow on you: knowledge, experience, trust. You are so teachable, so eager and ready to learn. You do not fear the dragons, as others do. You understand them. You love them.

"You have the heart of a chief, and the soul of a dragon."

I thought you would be just like your father. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Because you saw what your father could not see, and you have done what I could not do, though I tried. You are more than your father, and you are more than a Viking: you are a Dragon Rider. You are a chieftain. And you are my son. There is greatness in you, the ability to govern and lead and protect.

You were small and weak once. But no longer. You are an alpha, a chief who will command the respect of dragons and Vikings alike.

"Go get 'em."


	10. Chapter 10: Of Fish and Fins

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From How to Train Your Dragon. **

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><p>"Hey, Toothless, I brought breakfast. I hope...I hope you're hungry."<p>

It's the small one again. He smells different today: no more salty fear-tang or acrid snout-taste of sharp blades. He smells of running streams, earth and grass, fresh kill, egg-breaking. He smells of life, and something else: smoke, the scent of burning, not the fire in the bellies of the great ones, but tree-burning, much smoke and little heat. He smells of death too: the death of little bright ones. He smells of the food he carries.

There is more of it than before, and he does not ask me to share. He is not like the Great One, always commanding, always hungry. He does not smell of threat, but nevertheless there is threat, the stench of a fever-bearer hidden among the little bright ones. To eat it means sickness, pain, uncontrollable burning, liquid agony in the belly. The small one lifts it with his foreleg, touching its foul scales to throw it aside. The small one must not know how the great ones fear and loathe such things. He makes soothing noises, like an egg-bearer tending young ones, but there is no need, for the fever-bearer is gone.

The small one moves behind me, still cooing and warbling; perhaps he has learned this from his egg-bearer. I have not forgotten him, but he smells of comfort now: he is not dangerous, and the smell of the little bright ones is overwhelming. I must eat.

The small one touches my tail, but no matter. His scales are soft, smooth, and his forelegs are thin and weak; he may do what he will. But when the little bright ones are gone, something else touches my tail, something hard and cold where my fin used to be. Something feels different: the small one is still there, and something he has made. Part of it is soft, like the skin of flightless ones, and it too smells of tree-burning. It is heavy and unwieldy, and it doesn't answer my command, but it feels like the fin that is gone.

I spread my wings, because the Great One is calling, and there will not be another chance to return to the nest.

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><p><strong>AN: Details concerning the effects of the fever-bearer are taken from Defenders of Berk, Episode 16: The Eel Effect. **

**As always, reviews are much appreciated. **


	11. Chapter 11: Lessons From the Expert

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 2: Viking for Hire. **

"Hiccup, I may 'ave taught you everything you know, but I 'aven't taught you everything I know."

I know, sure, you think I'm just the village blacksmith, a one-armed, one-legged dragon killer with a lovely singin' voice and a fine moustache. But there's a lot more to me than that, Hiccup, and a lot more that I could still teach ya.

For starters, I could teach ya 'ow to cook; it would be good to put some meat on those skinny little bones of yours. Ya should try my meatballs, laddie, there's none like 'em on the whole island. It's my grandma's recipe, you know, mutton, yak, chicken, and fish oil with some very special secret herbs grown at the top of the sea stacks and picked by moonlight. They're delicious, especially when served with a bit o' bread and ale. Just the thing to put some hair on your chest...and don't give me that look, young man.

Then again, I really should teach ya 'ow to dance: ye weren't much of a dancer before you lost the foot, and as fine as your new peg-leg is, ya could use some tips. First thing to remember is, don't go steppin' on the lady's feet, even if they're huge. Second, smile: if you look awkward and uncomfortable, you'll feel awkward and uncomfortable, and you'll be awkward and uncomfortable. And third, if you really want to dance with little Miss Astrid, just go up and ask 'er. You know what they say, Hiccup: the best way to get a girl under the Snoggletog mistletoe is to jig your way there. Keep it in mind, lad.

And while we're on that subject, there's not much difference between dancin' and fightin', which you also don't do all that well. And if ya really want to call yourself a Viking, well then, we've got some work to do. Ya may have made peace with the dragons, but there are plenty of other tribes out there who like nothin' better than a friendly little war. When it comes to fightin', the first rule you 'ave to remember is that there are no rules. So, if an Outcast comes up to you and kicks ya in the shin, it is your great privilege and sacred duty to punch him in the nose in return. And then thunk him on the noggin with your hammer, or stick your dragon on him, whichever ye find most convenient.

You're a good boy, Hiccup, clever as they come, and ye've been a fine apprentice to me. But how much do ya really know about those dragons? I know, ya ride Toothless, and that counts for somethin'. But remember, lad, I've forgotten more about dragons than most men will ever know, and I know more about life in general than you will know for a long time.


	12. Chapter 12: Talking Fish-bone

**A/N: Many apologies, in advance, for the bucketload of angst. I owe a big thank you and a dedication to angelofdeath8254 for this chapter. **

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to DreamWorks Animation. **

**From How to Train Your Dragon. **

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><p>"This conversation is feeling very one-sided."<p>

Just like all of them, Dad. Because you never listen to me. And if you would, just once, I would gladly tell you everything.

So, here goes: there was a dragon out there in the woods, Dad. A Night Fury. Jet black, and smaller than we thought, and it had green eyes. I shot it down, and what's more, I was going to kill it. I was going to kill it, and bring it's heart to you; because then, maybe, you'd be proud of me, and you wouldn't be disappointed any more. But you won't be proud now, because I didn't. Kill it, I mean. I let it go.

I wanted to do it, Dad; I tried to do it. And it wasn't because I'm small and skinny: I didn't kill it because I couldn't make myself do it. I'm not a Viking, Dad, and I'm not like you. I'm a coward, and you have every reason to be ashamed of me and disappointed with me. Even if you didn't have a reason before, you do now.

And there's no point in putting me in Dragon Training after today, because I've already failed. I won't be able to do what's expected of me, and I won't kill dragons. The others will laugh, I'll be embarrassed, and you'll be disappointed all over again, because that's the way it always is.

I would tell you everything in my head, Dad, if I knew that just once you would listen and understand. Then you could be mad, call me an embarrassment, the 'worst Viking Berk has ever seen,' the talking fish-bone, even Hiccup the Useless. And I wouldn't complain; because this time, you'd be right.

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><p>But Hiccup didn't give voice to the thoughts that crowded his head. Instead, he merely muttered, "Deal," and stood there like the talking fish-bone he had always been, axe cradled disconsolately in his skinny arms and a weight of dread settling in the pit of his stomach.<p> 


	13. Chapter 13: For Everything Else

**A/N: It's signature Astrid, so it had to be done, no matter how clichéd.**

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and Dreamworks Animation. **

**From How to Train Your Dragon. **

* * *

><p>He's the smallest, skinniest, wimpiest boy in the village. He can't throw an axe, he can barely lift a shield, and he's always distracted by something or somebody. So how on earth did he just beat me in Dragon Training?<p>

It wasn't just the Gronckle; I know that. This goes all the way back to the Zippleback. Before that, he almost got himself, and the rest of us, killed.

It feels good to make him hurt. Yes, he's the chief's son and I'll probably get in trouble later; but then again, Hiccup's never been a whiner. He's secretive, awkward, and annoying, but not whiny.

And I'm not mad at him just because he's trying to feed me a pack of lies: I'm mad because he makes Dragon Training look simple. How does he do that? Everybody in Berk knows that fighting dragons is the hardest thing we do: so how does he make it look so easy?

Nope, twisting his fingers isn't enough: he deserves the axe for this.

"That's for the lies. And _that_...is for everything else."

* * *

><p>He's still the smallest, skinniest, wimpiest boy in the village. He still can't throw an axe, lift a shield, or avoid being distracted by the slightest thing. But he can do almost anything now, because he rides a dragon.<p>

It would be one thing if it was a Gronckle; that would be a huge surprise by itself. Heck, even a Zippleback would be cool. But no, it's a Night Fury, the Night Fury we've been frightened of for so long, the Night Fury we've hunted for so long, the Night Fury that he, he of all Vikings, brought down and tamed.

I don't know how we survived that flight; if it wasn't for Toothless, we'd never have gotten out of the nest alive. On the other hand, if it wasn't for Toothless, we'd never have gone to the nest in the first place. And before that, up there in the clouds, over the island, flying...that was easy, simple. It was amazing. Toothless is amazing. And Hiccup? He's still secretive and awkward, which is kind of annoying if you think about it, but he's surprising too. And definitely not whiny.

And I'm not mad at him because his dragon tried to drown me, or because we almost got eaten at the nest. I'm not even mad because he's asking me to go against everything I've ever been taught about fighting dragons and defending my home. I'm mad because, all this time, he's been taming a dragon, teaching it and learning from it. And he never told anyone until he had to.

Does he deserve to be punched? Absolutely. But he deserves something else too.

"That's for kidnapping me. That's for...everything else."

* * *

><p>After the last few weeks, he's still small, and if anything, skinnier than before. But not wimpy. Nobody will ever call him wimpy again, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he can't throw an axe and he can barely lift a shield. Any boy who rides a dragon into the clouds, who stares death in the face and laughs, and who saves the lives of people who used to laugh at him can never be called wimpy.<p>

I used to think that Gronckles were hard to beat, and Zipplebacks were nearly impossible for one person to subdue. But when you're facing down a queen, a giant of a dragon, you don't worry about relative difficulty, you just act. You act to save yourself and hopefully everybody else.

It's gonna' be hard for him to adjust. There are lots of men, and women, in the village who've lost limbs, but none so young. And when it gets hard, nobody will know about it. Because Hiccup is still secretive and awkward, and he won't complain of pain, or difficulty, or handicap. Because he is not, and never has been, a whiner. And maybe he's not so annoying any more.

And I'm not mad at him because he didn't tell me what he was going to do, or because he made it look simple, easy. I'm mad because I was scared, and I'm not used to being scared for anybody except my family.

And if I punch him lightly on the shoulder, it's because he deserves it. That and everything else I can give him.

"That's for scaring me."


	14. Chapter 14: Lullaby

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From ****Gift of the Night Fury****. **

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><p>"Listen: I know what it's like to miss someone you love this time o' year. But what do we do when they can't be here for the holiday? We celebrate them. And I imagine that's exactly what Toothless would want you to do. Right?"<p>

I'll never forget my first Snoggletog with your mother. This was some time before you were born, understand, and all we had was each other and our responsibilities in the village. It was so cold that winter; we'd get a blizzard and the snow would fall until we had to dig ourselves out in the morning, and then the clouds would clear away and give us night after night of skin-shredding wind and bone-numbing cold. You've never felt such cold, Hiccup: every day we found wild animals-boar and wolves and the like-in the woods on the mainland, frozen stiff as they slept. And every night the villagers huddled together into their homes, trying to keep warm.

* * *

><p><em>He woke that morning to find the fire burnt out and frost on the upper side of the furs. That meant another killing frost over-night; and there wasn't enough firewood to last through the rest of winter. Or the upcoming Snoggletog celebration for that matter. He'd have to do something about that, and Stoick the Vast had never been known for procrastination. Grunting a little, he shifted his legs, trying to get up without either waking his wife or touching the freezing cold floor with his bare feet. Eventually he gave up the struggle: there wasn't an inch of floorboard that wasn't slicked white with frost, and his wife was already awake anyway. <em>

_Grumbling under his breath, he rose, donning as many layers as possible as quickly as possible, quickly kissing his wife good-bye, and heading outside, fully intending to organize a firewood party with all speed. Odin, it would seem, was on his side: the skies were clear, and though the wind off the sea was bracingly cold, the sun was shining and the day looked promising. Moving quickly through the village, Stoick gathered a party together, a few words sufficing to call Gobber, Spitelout, and the others away from their normal day's work and into the forest. _

_Chopping firewood was hard, back-breaking work, but for the Vikings of Berk it offered a chance to keep their axes sharp and their swings level. They worked tirelessly, each man falling into a comfortable rhythm of swing, pull, lift, repeat, and the wood was filled with the ringing song of sharp axe blades on sturdy wood. When the sun reached its zenith, the cart was filled and all of the men were ready to return home with their cargo. All, that is, except for two restless souls with familial pride in their hearts and friendly challenge on their faces. _

* * *

><p>Everything was going well, son, until Gobber challenged Spitelout to take down a massive pine on his own. Well you know Spitelout: he's as bad as that son of his, and he won't back down from any man's challenge. He attacked that tree with his axe until I thought his back would break with the effort it cost him. And the biggest surprise of it all was that he actually brought it down. Only problem was, when it fell, it would have smashed the cart holding all the wood we'd already cut. I don't know how it happened, but somehow Gobber got himself in between tree and cart and tried to catch the thing before it fell. He saved the cart, but the tree broke his leg, and we wound up carrying him all the way back to the village.<p>

You should've heard him, Hiccup; Gobber's never been one to complain since he lost his hand and leg, but he was a right whining terror about that broken bone. But your mother, son, she took him in hand and looked after him until the leg healed and he was back on his feet...well, foot.

* * *

><p><em>Her hands were strong but soft when she changed the bandages or placed cooling cloths on his brow. And her voice was firm but sweet when she spoke to him or sang one of the soft, lilting lullabies of her family. They were sad and strange and somehow reminded him of his mother, gods rest her soul. He could sit and listen to those songs for hours on end, without being reminded of the cold outside, or the pain in his one good leg, or the everyday loneliness of his normal bachelor existence. <em>

_They sat together of an evening, the three of them, winter day after winter night, until Snoggletog came and went, and the blizzards abated, and the sun shone longer and stronger by day, and the stars turned in their courses by night. When he could stand and move and walk about to her satisfaction, he returned to his little house by the cliff and his work at the forge, singing the rough, cheerful songs of honest, hard-working men. But after that winter, he never forgot her kindness, the gentle light in her eyes, the firm grace of her hands, or the sad, strange melodies of her lullabies. _

* * *

><p>Two years later, she was gone, and I had the responsibility of looking after you through the winter and overseeing the Snoggletog celebrations. You cried all the time, because it was cold, you were hungry, you missed your mother. Gobber did his best to help, but he couldn't do much more than decorate the Hall and make sure there was enough firewood for everyone. That is, until he came to the house one night.<p>

* * *

><p><em>His voice was rough at first, a low growl as calloused and textured as his one hand. The infant keened and whimpered weakly, his green eyes round with mingled fear and curiosity, lingering tears drying on his cheeks. As the song grew, the blacksmith's voice evened out, his tones pitched lightly for the baby's ears. The little one ceased whimpering, watching and listening as attentively as a baby could. It wasn't the crude, cheery rhythm of a sea shanty or workman's ditty, nor the low crooning of a lover's ode that filled his ears. It was the soft, plaintive melody of a lullaby, one of his mother's, a song he'd not heard since her death. <em>

_The baby gripped the blacksmith's finger tightly as his eyes slowly closed, rocked to sleep in the man's strong arm. They sat together then, a father, a son, and a friend, missing her voice and her touch, her lullabies a painful echo and wistful celebration of her once honored presence._


	15. Chapter 15: Chowder

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 7: Worst in Show. **

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><p>"Look at the positive, Alvin."<p>

"That's not really me strong suit, now is it?"

"Think about it: uh...when life gives you fish-heads, what do you do?"

"I take it out on people like you!"

"Yes, that too. But, but, but, but...you can also make a delicious chowder."

Me wife used to make chowder, when she was alive. I miss it sometimes: a nice sit-in of an evening, with Fungus in me lap and a bowl of 'ot, creamy chowder in me 'and. Blite didn't look like much, but she were a good cook, I'll give 'er that much. And she didn't mind lookin' after me sheep and cabbages most of the time, so long as she could get away to fish every so often.

She liked to fish over on the other side o' the island, where the marshes grow and the salt-flats turn 'ard and crusty between tides. She told me once it was 'er "natural 'abitat," like a fish in water, or somethin' like that.

She was makin' a chowder one afternoon, and said she needed somethin' for it. I dunno what it was, maybe some seasonin' or an extra fish-tail, but she left, and she took 'er fishin' rod with 'er. I waited, hoein' the cabbages, mindin' the sheep, and talkin' to Fungus, but she didn't come back, and after a while the fire went out and the chowder stopped cookin' and just sat in its pot, and still she didn't come back. When the sun started to set, Fungus and me went looking for 'er.

It was dark on those marshes, dark and flat and smelly, and there were strange noises too. Imagine it, crawlin' around on your 'ands and knees, tryin' to hop from clump to clump of solid ground, marsh-grass sometimes over your 'ead, and all the time, Fungus bawlin' and bleatin' 'cause he was cold and 'ungry and scared. That sheep can be a dratted nuisance sometimes.

There was no moon that night, and the salt-flats were covered with water. There were fish in it too, great giant things with gleamin' scales that hopped in and out of the water, givin' me a start every time they splashed. We called for 'er, me and Fungus, over and over, and we never got an answer for our trouble. But when the sun rose, we found 'er fishin' rod. It was stuck in the bank of the salt-flats, with a fine, fat fish on the hook and a few leaves and plants lying on the bank next to it. We took the fish 'ome, and the fishin' rod and the plants, and I cleaned the fish and finished cooking the chowder, and very fine and tasty it turned out to be. But I never saw Blite again, and it's a shame too, because I miss 'er and 'er cookin'.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I don't recall any mention of whether or not Mildew was married, but it is a known fact that 'blight' is a synonym of 'mildew' and 'fungus' and also that 'blite', it's homonym, is a species of plant that grows in salty, coastal areas such as salt-flats and marshes. **


	16. Chapter 16: A Walk in the Woods

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From ****How to Train Your Dragon 2****. **

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><p><em>"Ruffnut? Didn't she try to bury you alive?"<em>

_"Only for a few hours."_

_And it was all just a big misunderstanding. Ruff's pretty awesome - amazing and beautiful, actually - but, like her brother, she doesn't always think things through. And it all started so innocently, with a simple walk in the woods..._

* * *

><p>"Ugh," Ruffnut scowled, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I am not going out there with Snotlout as a partner."<p>

Snotlout wrapped one arm around her shoulder and she stiffened. "Oh, come on, baby, it'll be fun," he said, his voice dripping oily charm. Ruffnut rolled her eyes in response.

"Ruff, we talked about this," Hiccup said, doing his best not to plead outright. "We have to do this job in pairs, and Snotlout asked to be partnered with you."

"Why can't I just go with Tuffnut?"

"Do I _really _need to answer that question?"

She glared at him and pushed Snotlout away with a forceful shove. "Okay, fine," she huffed, "but only just this once."

They left the arena together, Snotlout grinning delightedly and Ruffnut muttering something about _stupid rules _and _idiot brothers who don't show up when they're wanted_.

Astrid crossed her arms and glanced at Hiccup questioningly. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"They'll be fine," he replied. "It's just filling in bear traps. What could possibly go wrong?"

She shook her head, not wishing to contemplate the many potential answers to _that _question. "I still think we should have used the dragons."

"Don't worry; it'll be a good opportunity for all of us to practice teamwork," he said, clasping her hand.

"Which is why I'm partnered with you?"

He grinned. "That and other reasons."

* * *

><p>It was autumn, and both trees and forest floor were vibrant in shades of red, yellow, and gold, each leaf a single brush-stroke in a masterpiece of color. The scene would have been enough to make one wax poetic, but Snotlout Jorgenson was less of the compose-sonnets-on-the-spot type and more of the shoot-first-ask-questions-later type. Which was why Ruffnut found herself punching him more and more as he repeatedly attempted to put his arm around her waist while they walked.<p>

"Are you gonna' stop that anytime soon?" she asked, her annoyance plain.

"I can't stop it, sweetheart," he crooned, "you're just too much for me."

She stopped dead in her tracks and planted her hands firmly on her hips. "Let's get one thing straight here, Snotface: you can keep doing what you're doing, but it won't make any difference. Got it?"

He held up his hands placatingly. "Hey, slow down, honey bunches, I got the message." He smirked at her again. "But you can't fault a guy for trying."

She grunted in exasperation and turned away, walking quickly to put some distance between them. In her haste, she tripped on an errant branch and fell, face forward. Putting her hands in front to catch herself, she crashed through a pile of fallen leaves...and kept falling, landing with a soft thud and a muffled _oomph _at the bottom of a long unused bear trap.

"Ruff, honey, are you all right?" she heard Snotlout call from above. "Where are you?"

"I'm done here," she said, inspecting her limbs for injuries and for once grateful for Snotlout's presence.

His face, comically skewed with concern, appeared in the patch of blue sky above her. "Okay, whoa, we- we need to get you out of there. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, but I don't think I can climb out of this thing. You didn't bring any rope along, did you?"

"Uh, no."

"Well then, get down here and help me," she ordered.

He hastened to obey, sitting down and scooting himself gingerly over the edge of the hole. It was a short drop, and he landed on hands and knees next to her. The bear trap wasn't terribly deep, but it was fairly narrow and a bit cramped with the two of them inside. "Okay, now what?" he asked, peering up at her dirty face.

"You give me a boost. Duh!" she replied, scowling more than ever.

Wordlessly, he made to comply, then apparently thought better of it. "Now, wait a second," he said slowly. "We're down here...alone, nobody else around...nobody knows we're here. I think we should take advantage of the situation, don't you?"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you talking about?"

"You...and me, Ruff. Alone together, at last. And there's no time like the present."

"Oh, no you don't," she warned.

"Aw, come on, Ruff. Just one little kiss?"

For answer she grabbed his out-stretched hand and twisted it behind his back, shoving him to his knees. Snotlout yelped in pain as she stepped on his neck and head, using his back as a boost to scramble out of the hole. He stood up, rubbing his sore neck and contemplating the change in their respective circumstances. The latter task eventually proved too difficult and he gave it up, adopting a conciliatory tone.

"I know you didn't mean that. Now come on, Ruff; help me out of here?"

She shook her head slowly, her mouth curving upward in an evil grin. As Snotlout watched, flabbergasted, she began pushing piles of fallen leaves over the hole's edge. They showered down around him, catching on his helmet and leaving him blinking in the disturbed dust.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he protested, his cries falling on consciously deaf ears. When Ruffnut had finished, Snotlout was up to his neck in dead leaves and highly irritated by the situation. She sat down with a plop next to the trap and looked down on him while he attempted to change her mind.

They sat thus for some time, while the sun trod its age-old path across the sky and the leaves fell like gentle snow. Snotlout tried everything he could think of: threats, pleas, promises, simple requests, even stories, but all to no avail. They were still there when Hiccup and Astrid found them two hours later.

Neither of them said much on the walk home, both too mortified to divulge the subject of their quarrel. Hiccup and Astrid had enough experience to refrain from asking questions. But when they reached the arena, the sun dipping into the sea on the western horizon, Hiccup had plenty to say.

"Now, I don't know what's going on between you two," he concluded, "but you need to sort it out before somebody does something really stupid and someone gets hurt. Understood?"

They both muttered an embarrassed acknowledgment and left, going their separate ways as soon as they exited the arena. Hiccup shook his head and sighed in frustration as he watched them go. "What am I going to do with them?"

* * *

><p><em>I didn't really listen to everything Hiccup said; he's really bossy, and he can be pretty boring when he gets going. But I did figure something out while he was talking: Ruffnut could have left me in that hole and gone back to Berk. She didn't, so either she was lost and didn't want to admit it, or she might actually like me after all. I mean, really, who else is there?<em>


	17. Chapter 17: To the End of the Earth

**This chapter is dedicated to Kathryn Elwin; many thanks for the suggestion. Also, thank you to Angela for correcting the lamentable gaps in my knowledge of Mildew's marital status. **

**Disclaimer: ****How to Train Your Dragon ****and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation; I would, however, like to take credit for the character of Helga Hofferson.**

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 13: When Lightning Strikes**

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><p><em>"I had an aunt who was cursed by Odin once; she had to pay tribute to him by sailing to the end of the earth."<em>

_"Did it work?"_

_"I don't know; I guess she couldn't find it because she kept showing up from the opposite direction."_

* * *

><p>Helga Hofferson was cursed by Odin; she knew it, her family knew it, and the whole blessed village of Berk knew it. Apparently, divine disapprobation occurred infrequently enough to make it an <em>event<em>, something along the lines of the passage of the Flightmare, or the appearance of a blue moon, even the once-in-a-generation brown Snoggletog. It never happened, simply because most of the villagers were too afraid to do anything that might anger the god.

Not that Helga especially minded being cursed: the injunction to sail to the end of the earth meant time away from both a demanding home life and Berk's notoriously inclement weather. Out on the ocean, in her speedy little boat with its lovely sharp prow and proud little sail, she was free: free to sit and think and listen to the wind and the waves and the calls of far-away Scauldrons and Thunder-drums. She was also free to bake in the blinding sun, or freeze in driving rainstorms, or rant and rave when she was blown off course, or to be bored out of her mind while caught in the doldrums.

It wasn't a bad thing, this freedom. And truly, Helga relished the idea of being the first Viking to look upon the end of the earth, and see it in all its dreadful glory. There were tales, handed down for generations, of demons and angels and monsters and vast treasure houses and great fairy palaces of ice and crystal and fire, all of them contained in the mystic land just off the edge of the world. Nobody could ever say for sure if it was Valhalla or something else, but without fail, all spoke of it with wonder and trepidation, voices hushed and eyes shining in contemplation of it. Helga longed to see this place, this mystic land just off the edge of the world, and bring back new stories to her family and friends. If only she could find it.

She'd seen wonders of course: islands of almost translucent ice painted by the sunlight in every shade of blue, pink, green, orange, and violet. She'd explored lands where untouched forests stretched on for miles, home to every kind of tree, bird, and wild animal she knew and hundreds more she did not. She'd looked up from her little boat floating just off unknown coastlines and seen mountain ranges that rose up to embrace the clouds, their majestic heads eternally shrouded in mystery. And she'd gazed in awe on vast plains of endless white, both sand and snow, both austere and beautiful in their stark desolation, and felt how very small and insignificant she was in comparison. She'd survived the fiercest gales of the northern ocean, clinging desparately to her little boat, adrift and alone. And she'd felt the warming of the sun afterwards, when the clouds had dissipated before the breeze. She'd seen much, but never that which she sought.

Helga scratched her head in puzzlement as she watched the jagged but too-familiar outline of her home island loom large on the horizon. Once again, her long voyage had brought her right back to where she'd started, the same pebbly shore and rocky cliffs of Berk. And once again, she glanced up at the sky, expecting Odin's wrath to descend upon her as punishment for her failure. But no lightning bolts struck her, no rain nor hailstones poured down to sink her little boat, and she sighed, once again feeling herself the victim of a cosmic joke, the punchline of which she seemed to have missed entirely.

Helga Hofferson truly was cursed by Odin, but she was blessed as well; and she never realized how much.


	18. Chapter 18: With One Twist

**Disclaimer: ****How to Train Your Dragon ****and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**This chapter rated T.**

**From ****How to Train Your Dragon****. **

* * *

><p>"Ya know, kids, there's a little story you all need ta hear. It was many years ago, long before any of you were born, and I was a young dragon fighter."<p>

* * *

><p>Gobber the Belch was a sturdy fellow, chubby some might have said, when they were being nasty, but a dependable blacksmith and ferocious fighter. He'd kept the forge since his father's untimely death and, though the work was hot, loud, smoky, and largely thankless, he liked it. He liked the little smithy on the edge of the cliff, the opportunity to sing to the beat of the hammer, and the satisfaction of a job well done. And he loved being one of the first to spot the dragons when they came.<p>

To Gobber, fighting was as easy as eating breakfast, and much more fun. He didn't mind the occasional brawl with Spitelout or Mulch, but the frequent dragon raids, dangerous as they were, were infintely more satisfying. Nadders were a nice challenge: in addition to blasts of flaming hot death, they also liked to flick their tails and pin men to the wall with those spikes. Zipplebacks were crafty and cantankerous: Gobber had once had his undies seriously singed in a fireball of exploding gas. Terrors were problematic: as tempermental as cats, and much more dangerous because they liked to hunt in packs. He liked Gronckles though: they could be slow and lazy, like a dog he'd once owned, but an enraged Gronckle was a sight to be seen, chewing through solid rock and spewing lava like a volcano mid-eruption. But Gobber especially liked Nightmares: they were show-men, dragons with undeniable personality and dramatic flare. Gobber was a workman who took pride in doing the job properly, to the fullest; Nightmares were the same, enjoying the destruction they left behind them.

* * *

><p>"The chief, well, he's all about efficiency, gettin' the job done quick and movin' on ta the next thing. But some of us take the time to enjoy the job. And I 'spose that's why it happened the way it did."<p>

* * *

><p>The dragons came in the small hours, the dark time between the moon's setting and sun's rising. Gobber was at the smithy early, the forge's glow already lighting the cramped space, when he saw them. The Nightmares came first, as they always did, burning a swath through the village while the Gronckles and Nadders made for the sheep pens. Gobber felt no fear, only the rush of adrenaline that both cleared his head and made his blood burn within him. He left the forge, taking axe and spear with him, raising the alarm as he prepared to defend his home once again.<p>

There were more of them than usual, swooping around the giant torches, swarming on the ground, and burning everything in sight. Gobber moved swiftly, heading for a group of Gronckles that were chewing through the stone supports of a catapult tower. They fled before him, his axe ringing as he rained down blows on the clumsy beasts. He was everywhere at once, his blood ringing in his ears as he fought, his lungs and limbs burning with exertion and the fire of bloodlust.

He moved as one in a dream, every swing of the axe weighted with purpose, a thousand potential futures in every motion of his strong arms. The dragons that did not fall before him fled, taking to the sky in a rush of frantically flapping wings; all but one of them.

He didn't see the Nightmare until it was almost on top of him, so absorbed was he in punishing a Nadder. The great dragon, its scales marked in exotic stripes of orange and black, stood up on its back legs, wings spread, and lit the flames in its skin. The night around it was painted vivid red and orange, flickering tongues of fire dancing in the darkness. Gobber smiled, turning to face the monstrosity that towered over him. The beast roared and spewed a blast of fire that melted the earth where Gobber had been standing. He dodged it, running to engage the Nightmare at close range, but the dragon was quick, bending its neck to snap at the Viking. Gobber ducked, hefting his spear and throwing it from where he crouched. The dragon's head shot out and it caught the spear in its jaws, snapping the shaft in two and growling, pupils narrowed to angry slits.

"Come on!" Gobber shouted, axe held high, ready to strike. He brought the blade down with all his strength, aiming for the creature's neck, but it was too quick, twisting away and then back, jaws snapping. The axe buried itself in the dirt with the force of Gobber's swing and he released the handle, throwing up his hands and backing away as fast as he could. Not fast enough. The dragon lunged and its enormous mouth clamped shut around Gobber's left wrist.

Time seemed to stand still; the cacophony around them diminished as Gobber stared into the beast's maddened eyes, then at his arm, trapped in the dragon's mouth. For the briefest of seconds, he thought it wasn't real, that the dragon would release him, that he would wake up back in the smithy with his hand too close to the forge. But it was not so; the dragon's pupils dilated in surprise and it twisted its head to one side, lips curving upward...

* * *

><p>"And with one twist, he took my hand and swallowed it whole. And I saw the look on his face: I was delicious! He must've passed the word, because it wasn't a month before another one of them took my leg."<p> 


	19. Chapter 19: Short, Sweet, and Sharp

**Many thanks to Angela for the suggestion; I hope you like this chapter, because it is dedicated to you. **

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 7: How to Pick Your Dragon. **

* * *

><p>"See that? That's what it looks like to be ridden all day by a 400-pound man." Hiccup is annoyed, but it's for Toothless' sake, so I suppose his annoyance is justified.<p>

"At least you got your dad on a dragon." There's a positive side to every situation, and in my book, this is a pretty big positive.

"Yeah, now I just need to figure out how to get him off one." It's true, Hiccup's dad isn't the easiest person to deal with, especially when it comes to making decisions about what's best for everybody, Vikings and dragons alike.

"Why don't you just give him the ol' 'honey and the hatchet'? You know, you tell him something he wants to hear, that's the honey part, before you hit him in the head with something he doesn't. You know, the hatchet." It's worked before, no reason not to try it now.

"Why does your advice always involve weapons?"

Because Hiccup, I like weapons; I'm good with weapons, everybody says so. And, I also happen to know where that phrase comes from.

As you know, babe, honey is a rare and precious commodity in the Barbaric Archipelago. Hatchets, on the other hand, are as common around here as missing limbs. Oh, sorry: I shouldn't have said that. Anyway, my mother told me that there was a time in Berk when compliments were hard to come by and hard truths were in abundant supply.

Back to the story: long ago, when Vikings first sailed here and landed on these shores, there was a young Hooligan warrior who spent several days wandering the forest, finding all the best streams and fishing holes and looking for the perfect place to set down roots and build a house for his family. He'd looked long and hard, climbing sheer cliffs, digging through rock and underbrush to feel the soil, and all the while fending off attacks from wild boar, wolves, and bears. When he thought for certain he would never find the right spot, he went trudging through the forest back to the shore, ready to give up. And then he saw it.

* * *

><p><em>The oak was massive, an ancient giant that stood alone in the clearing, its mighty limbs rising higher than the surrounding trees. It was like a great chief, one who towered over his people, sheltering them in his shadow. But it was old, its bark black with age, many limbs bare of leaves and already bowing in weariness. The Hooligan approached it, overawed by its sheer size and girth, then stepped back suddenly. A loud buzzing surrounded the giant's feet, and when he looked around it, he saw a large hole between two roots. Bees buzzed in and out of this hole, diligent workers, the tiny servants of a great lord. The Hooligan smiled, knowing what treasure was hidden within the trees, and left, resolving to return. <em>

* * *

><p>There are still some trees like that, by the way, scattered around the island. You can find them easily enough, if you know where to look. But I digress.<p>

The Hooligan went back to the clearing the next morning, and he took both his trusty hatchet and his intrepid wife with him. They worked steadily, doing their best to pull the honeycombs out without disturbing the bees. As it was, they both ended up getting stung several times, which probably didn't improve anybody's mood.

Afterwards, they sat in the woods licking honey off their fingers and talking.

* * *

><p><em>It was one of those beautiful fall days, when the sun shone with all the brightness of Indian summer, but its heat was tempered by a cool northern breeze. The buzzing of the bees was a faint hum in the background and under the trees the shadows grew long. The Hooligan smiled to himself, for the moment content, until his wife asked a question. <em>

_"Where is the house going to be?" _

_"Hmm? House?"_

_"You promised me a house. You said, when we left my mother's, there would be a house. On a nice bit of land."_

_He hadn't forgotten; indeed, the house had been on his mind since they'd landed, his every thought intent on finding just the right place. He waited a bit before responding, thinking through his answer. _

_"Why not right here, in the clearing?"_

_"Well, the honey is nice, but you'll have to do something about that tree."_

_"What's wrong with the tree?"_

_"It's much too old. If you build a house in that clearing, the first winter storm will send a dead branch through the roof, I'm sure of it."_

_The Hooligan thought for a moment. He rather liked the tree. _

_"But what about the bees?"_

_"Oh, they'll move on and build a hive somewhere else. No, the tree's got to go; if you start now with your hatchet you'll have it done in no time."_

_The Hooligan stood with a sigh, hefting his very small hatchet in one hand and heading back into the clearing to face that massive tree. _

* * *

><p>Don't laugh, Hiccup; have you ever even tried to chop down just a small tree, by yourself, with a hatchet? No, wait: don't answer that.<p>

The Hooligan was still chopping the next day, with nothing to show for it except a small dent in the tree and a lot more bee stings. His wife came back to the clearing and bandaged him up so he could keep chopping.

* * *

><p><em>He looked up at the brances waving calmly overhead, wishing he didn't have to cut it down. His wife was right, as usual: it would be dangerous to build a house in the clearing with an old, partially dead tree threatening to come crashing down at any moment. But it was still a shame. And chopping it down was taking a very long time, and giving him painful blisters. He rubbed his hands together and watched as his wife lifted the hatchet from the ground, attacking the trunk with long, powerful, even strokes, woodchips flying as she worked. <em>

_"You know, dear, you're an excellent hunter," she said between swings. _

_"Oh?" He perked up, grateful for the small praise._

_"Yes, and the clearing is perfect for the house. And I am truly grateful for the honey yesterday."_

_His heart swelled a bit in pride and satisfaction. _

_"But, on the other hand, you never were very good with a hatchet."_

* * *

><p>So that's the honey and the hatchet, short, sweet, and sharp. And if you ever want to get your dad off Toothless, that's how it's gonna' have to be.<p> 


	20. Chapter 20: Punching Doesn't Bother Me

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 13: Free Scauldy**

* * *

><p>"Hiccup, you know how I feel about dragons. But a wild Scauldron is...it's, well...it's about as wild as they get. Maybe...maybe this is just one of those times when...Nature just has to take its course."<p>

"You mean like when I drank that sour yak milk and gave Ruffnut the 'smoky Viking'?

Yeah; that story. That was a good one, one of the best. Ruffnut punched me really hard after that, and the harder the punch, the better the joke. Ruff's like that: she's an excellent judge of quality, and she gives just as good as she gets.

Here's what happened: we were having breakfast one morning. Most days, mom gives us fish for breakfast, no questions asked, and everybody's happy, but that morning she made porridge. _Blurgh_. Ruff likes porridge, I hate it. When it's not hard enough to break your teeth, it's slimy and coats the inside of your mouth with nasty goo. Although, nasty goo in the mouth makes for some really awesome spit wads.

That morning, the porridge was especially slimy, probably because mom put yak milk in it. She said the milk would make it test better; it didn't. In fact, the milk was sour and tasted even worse than the porridge. But, mom won't let anybody leave the table until the porridge is gone (unless the house is burning; maybe I should try that someday). I've already tried hiding mine so she thinks I've eaten it; that doesn't work any more. So we ate our porridge, and drat it if Ruffnut didn't enjoy hers as noisily as possible. That might be the most annoying thing she does: she punches me, but punching doesn't bother me, I like punching. It feels good. But slurping is really annoying. I know, Ruff's a girl, and somehow she manages to look all sweet and innocent; don't believe it for a minute. She's got the worst table manners on the island, and compared to Snotlout, that's saying something. Anyway, Ruff slurped, I swallowed, and after breakfast mom sent us outside to go cause trouble somewhere else.

I was spitting all morning, trying to get nasty porridge goo and sour yak milk taste out of my mouth, because it was disgusting, and toothpaste hasn't been invented yet. That was when the awesomest thing happened: Ruffnut and Astrid were sitting on a rock next to the stream, talking about girl things, and they didn't know I was behind them until a really big spit wad landed on Ruff's shoulder. She knew it was me, and up she popped to take her revenge. Too bad I was already running: Ruff's fast, but I'm faster, and I led her a merry chase all over the woods. Every chance I got, I gave her another spit wad. Mom always says where there's smoke, there's fire, and if I was the smoke, Ruff was the fire, 'cause she was madder than a dragon that's lost its toy.

But all good things come to an end, and when Ruff finally caught me, she gave me a split lip and a bloody nose. But that was another good thing, 'cause after all the blood got in my mouth I couldn't taste sour yak milk any more.

Mom doesn't make porridge nowadays; it causes too much trouble. And every time I even so much as mention the 'smoky Viking', Ruff tries to punch me. But that's okay, because punching doesn't bother me.


	21. Chapter 21: Think About It

**And one more dedicated to Kathryn Elwin; many thanks for your excellent suggestions. **

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 6: Fright of Passage**

* * *

><p>"Come on, Hiccup! Don't tell me you haven't been dreaming about the Flightmare. Going after it, learning about it, <em>training <em>it."

"Well, you know, Astrid, uh...training dragons isn't the only thing I think about."

"Are you actually saying that to me with a straight face?"

Yeah, I am, actually. There are a lot of things I think about. Like flying dragons...and teaching the village about dragons...and discovering new dragons, even if said new dragons are Changewings who'll try to kill you at every available opportunity. The point is, we train the dragons so we can live with them, so we don't have to fight them or drive them away, so we'll never have to go back to the way things used to be.

Because if you think about it, the way things used to be was pretty bad. It's really easy for you and the others to look back on the war and call it 'the good old days when we fought dragons, and the chief yelled a lot, and Hiccup wasn't a hero, just a talking fish-bone'; I think about those days too, often. But they weren't good times.

We were dying. Slowly, bit by bit, but surely. We put everything we had into fighting the dragons, but we lost more ground than we gained.

And yes, my dad yelled a lot.

Things are different now, aren't they? Most things, at least. I'm not used to having a voice, to having people listening to me; it's annoying that the twins still don't listen to me, but it feels normal. And Snotlout...well, he hasn't changed at all. He probably never will. But everything else changed. My dad doesn't really yell any more, now when he's mad he expects me to help solve the problem. The grown-ups look at me differently: your parents, Gothi, Bucket and Mulch and silent Sven and Mildew and the others. Even Gobber. Even you. _Especially _you.

And I know what you're thinking, Astrid: you're thinking about how much you think I think about you. Okay, that didn't come out the way I imagined it, but still, that's what this is all about, isn't it? Because you're right. You're in my thoughts every day, Astrid; and then I feel guilty, because Toothless is my best friend, and my dad...well, he's my dad. And everybody at the Academy is my responsibility. I think about them a lot, especially Toothless. But I think about you more than anything else. Is that wrong? And do you think of me as much as I think of you?

I wouldn't mind it if you did; really, I wouldn't.


	22. Chapter 22: The Yak of Minudin

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 14: Frozen**

* * *

><p>"And that reminds me of another story: did I ever tell you how I became an honorary member of the royal court of Minudin, master Hiccup? Ah, what a glorious land that is: fields upon spreading fields of the finest flax you'll ever lay eyes on, flocks of sheep with wool as soft and thick and white as purest snow, and herds of proud yak with their fine black hair washed, combed, and braided . They're tanners and weavers, the people of Minudin, and let me tell you, trading with them is like sun-bathing in the southern climes: very pleasant and agreeable, but you're quite likely to get burned if you don't wear the appropriate costume.<p>

It happened on one of my trading trips that I was blown off course in a storm and washed up on the shores of that kingdom, my little ship in splinters and my clothing in rags. Well, I couldn't appear before the king of Minudin in such a dreadful state of _deshabillé_, so I took shelter in a cave in the rocks to think long and hard on my predicament.

I thought and thought and finally came to the conclusion that I would have to use my sharp wits to acquire new clothing. Unfortunately, by the time I'd decided what to do, the tide was coming and my little cave would soon be full of ocean. It was move or drown, so I moved, and quickly.

I climbed the cliffs of that harsh shore and found myself wandering the fields, fields full of sheep and yak, all of them much more presentable than myself; and I wept, master Hiccup, at their beauty compared to my own lamentable state.

As I wandered, lonely and miserable, it began to rain. The water pounded down, driven by the wind and obscuring everything in a haze until I could barely see two feet in front of me. I could hear the yak lowing and running before the driving downpour. But one of them, a small one with lovely pink ribbons in its braided hair, ran straight toward the cliff, headed for inevitable doom! I ran to intercept it, and threw my arms around its head to slow it down. It dragged me along before it finally slowed, snorting and lowing and panting in its terror.

We turned around then and headed inland, desperately searching for shelter. We never found any so we kept walking, and when the rains finally cleared and the sun shone, we found ourselves approaching the great city of Spindal, capital of Minudin. I headed for the palace, fully intending - despite my soaking hair and ragged clothes - to return the small, pink-ribboned yak to the king.

I bowed before him, trembling at his fierce gaze and overawed by the magnificence of his costume, but determined to hold my head high and acquit myself well. But before I could speak, he gave a great cry and rushed down from his throne! I threw my hands over my head, certain I was done for, but it wasn't me the king approached. It was the yak.

That great king threw his arms around that yak, stroking it and kissing it and murmuring comforting words to it, to my great amazement. Then he turned to me and said, "You, stranger, have saved her. For that, I am grateful and you shall be richly rewarded." Then he went back to stroking the yak. And then I realized.

It was not a yak, it was his daughter! I could not believe. She looked like a yak, and her name was Yak-mene. And that, master Hiccup, was how the king of Minudin made me an honorary member of his royal court."


	23. Chapter 23: Why Do Terrors Sing?

**A/N: When all is said and done, Fishlegs probably does know more about dragons than Hiccup, and he can be just as boring. **

**Disclaimer: Say it with me, everybody "...etc."**

**From How to Train Your Dragon 2 and Defenders of Berk, Episode 6: Fright of Passage**

* * *

><p><em>"Oh, you're gonna' ... you're gonna' love this. I wake up, the sun is shining, Terrible Terrors are singing on the rooftop. I saunter down to breakfast thinking all is right with the world and I get...'Son, we need to talk.'"<em>

* * *

><p><em>"That's everything, now let me in!"<em>

_"Yeah, we would love to, Snotlout. Really, we would, but you forgot the most important thing on the list: Singing Terrible Terror."_

_"Singing Terrible Terror, I'll give you Singing Terrible Terror. I just wanted yak butter parfait..."_

* * *

><p>"Listen up, class: Contrary to popular opinion, and in contrast to other singing creatures - namely many species of birds, crickets, and humpback whales - Terrible Terrors do not sing as part of a mating ritual. Terrible Terrors sing because of the unique and, dare I say it, elegant physiology of their throats and vocal chords.<p>

Now, each dragon makes its own unique sounds, ranging from bone-chilling shrieks and spine-tingling roars, to gentle crooning, to plaintive or complaining squawks, squeaks, lows, and snuffles. Each dragon has its own voice, and some are quite impressive in their ability to communicate. But no other dragon possesses the vocal range, the extraordinary expressivity, or the charming musicality of the Terrible Terror. While the typical Terror's loudness level is somewhat low, about a Class 2, he makes up for it with soothing melodies that delight the ear.

But how and why does the Terrible Terror sing while other dragons cannot?

As is commonly known, most dragons with fire-breathing capabilities ignite their gas with a spark created by rubbing their vocal chords together. This action explains the curious half roar/half squeak that is only heard when your dragon decides to blast something. This happens constantly: every time your dragon speaks, he or she creates harmless, unignited sparks in his or her throat.

But unlike most other dragon breeds, the Terror is quite small, so the vocal chords, tongue, and all of those unused sparks are contained in a very slender neck. This means that the Terror's chords are stretched to an unusual length in proportion to its body, which gives them a longer distance on which to vibrate, and thus a greater range in pitch frequency.

Furthermore, the Terror's head is also rather proportionately large. This large head acts as an amplifier, increasing and projecting what should be a tiny voice into something both tuneful and easy to hear.

And finally, many have noticed that the Terrible Terror possesses a vocal quality that has been described as bright and forward. This is due to the fact that Terrors create sparks at the very top of the throat, somewhere below the tonsils. The vibration caused by rubbing then travels all the way down the Terror's long vocal chords, swirls around inside its large mouth, and comes out as a pleasing melody.

That is how the Terrible Terror sings. As to why, well, the Terror is like a bird: he sings because he knows no other way to speak.

Now, any questions?"

"Yeah, I've got a question: where's that yak butter parfait you promised?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Please don't take any of this chapter seriously. Though I do know a few things about singing, I don't know anything at all about physiology, except how to spell it. **


	24. Chapter 24: The Challenge

**Disclaimer: ****How to Train Your Dragon ****still doesn't belong to me; wish it did.**

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 18: Bing, Bam, Boom!**

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><p>"Ah, 's ridiculous! They look like Gobber wrestlin' a greased yak."<p>

_And let me tell ya, son, that was an event ta remember. Don't tell 'im I said this, but Gobber's been a wee bit mad ever since he last 'is hand; must've been keeping most of his common sense there. And when Gobber starts drinkin', well, a wee bit mad becomes out of control and willin' to take any dare, especially if it comes from Spitelout. _

* * *

><p>It was a long-standing tradition in Berk, a contest of both physical prowess and agile cunning, the victor becoming the recipient of bragging rights and the admiration of the younger generation. It was a matter of pride to accept the challenge and a borderline disgrace to decline. And for a meathead with attitude and interchangeable hands it was too good to refuse.<p>

He stood and faced his challenger, eye to eye and nose to nose, and in a strong, clear voice, intoned the words that sealed his fate and accepted the challenge. A mighty roar of concerted approval went up in the Great Hall and preparations were swiftly made.

The yak was brought, an old, strong bull, his horns long and temper short. He objected vehemently to the grease being rubbed into his hair, tossing his head, stamping, and snorting with suppressed rage.

When all was made ready, the wrestler stepped into the ring and faced him in a ready stance, his weight balanced evenly on foot and peg-leg, his hand and stump in guard position.

They circled, yak and wrestler, eyeing each other suspiciously, each waiting for the other to make the first move. The yak pawed the ground, snorting and tossing his horns. Then he paused, lowered his massive head, and charged...

* * *

><p><em>They grease the yak for good reason, son: slippery hair means it's difficult to get a proper hold, so it's harder ta get yourself trampled when the yak starts runnin'. But we're Vikings: we 'ave stubbornness issues, and Gobber might be the second stubbornest Viking on this island after me. Once he got a hold on that yak, he wouldn't let go for love or money and that yak dragged him all over the island. Spitelout finally got tired of chasin' him and went home. The yak wandered back to his pasture the followin' day and when Gobber didn't come back after 'im, I led a search party inta the woods. <em>

* * *

><p>It was a very large forest, giant trees overshadowing smaller ones, and smaller trees overshadowing leafy undergrowth. The sun cast dappled shade on the ground below, glinting and flickering on the blades the searchers carried. They plunged onward, calling his name and searching for torn cloth, blood, anything that might lead them aright.<p>

It was late afternoon when they found him, and the sun cast lengthening shadows under the trees. He sat, calm and serene, perched high in the branches of a mighty oak; his clothing was torn, his face scratched, and his peg-leg missing, but still he sat and sang meaningless ditties to his heart's content, patiently waiting for the necessary assistance in getting down.

* * *

><p><em>Ye don't even want ta know how long it took ta get 'im down out o' that tree, and as ta how he got up there in the first place, I asked him about it once. He told me, "That particular yak has a most particular kick, Stoick." I didn't ask 'im again. <em>

_The yak we kept, and as I recall, it was a very quiet animal and produced a fine, healthy herd and never gave us another bit of trouble as long as it lived. But since that day, no one has ever wrestled a greased yak, and I 'ave never seen Gobber up another tree._


	25. Chapter 25: Back in Business: An Ode

**A/N: Who knew Tuffnut could sew **_**and **_**write jingles? **

**Disclaimer: Doesn't art belong to everyone? In general, yes. In particular, no. **

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 19: Cast Out, Part 1**

* * *

><p>"Back in business, ain't it fine?<p>

Doin' curtains all the time."

Curtains made of finest hair,

It's not so hard for yaks to share.

I'm good with fabrics, cloth, and stuff.

My mother says I'm good enough

I could become head weaver soon,

But that would be inopportune

'Cause textiles might be great and all

But I don't have the wherewithal

To stick it out and see it through.

Flying's much more fun to do,

Especially when Ruffnut's mad:

She's got a punch that is _so _bad

It makes a flight a crazy thing.

Barf and Belch begin to swing

Their heads around and make us sick

(It's kinda' gross and really thick).

Then Hiccup yells at us to quit

Our arguing, and try to sit

As still as rocks. I don't know why;

He's such a weirdo, crazy guy

He speaks in riddles. But then, what hoo?

We're stuck: Barf, Belch, and Ruffnut too,

And me, we're caught inside a net

That someone came out here and set

For unsuspecting Viking dudes.

I'm not sure who; I think they're prudes

For setting such an evil trap.

Now Ruffnut's sitting on my lap;

It's cramped in here, we're out of space.

Barf's breathing gas into my face

And Hiccup's shouting something weird.

But what's his deal? We volunteered

To do this job, and do it well.

When we get out, I'm gonna' tell

The tale of how I saved the group

By loosening the twisty loop

Of rope and getting us out free.

It takes someone who knows, you see,

To pull the thread and save the day.

"That's awesome!" Let me hear you say

The words and then we'll all go off.

And don't you laugh and call it cough,

'Cause Tuffnut really is the best

With fabrics, rope, and all the rest.

If you need textiles on your wall,

Don't be shy, just give a call.

Say, "Tuffnut, someone needs your aid:

The sun is bright, we need some shade."

When Tuffnut comes you'll be surprised,

'Cause Tuffnut will delight your eyes

With curtains, rugs, slipcovers too;

So many choices, all for you

To take your pick and make it right.

I offer shades from black to white

And every color in between.

The brightest shades of blue and green

Are dull compared to cloth I dye.

So step right up and don't be shy

To find the cloth you'd like to try:

The best that all your gold can buy.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This was so much fun to write! Please keep those reviews coming. **


	26. Chapter 26: Another Chance

**Disclaimer: I don't own How to Train Your Dragon, but if I did Hiccup would be taller. **

**From How to Train Your Dragon.**

* * *

><p>"Ready the ships!"<p>

For the first time in his life, Stoick the Vast cursed himself for the overwhelming responsibilities of chieftaincy and fatherhood, and his complete inability to accomplish both simultaneously. Thor only knew, one was hard enough for any man, but both? Stoick had always believed that a Viking could do anything, but he was beginning to realize there were some things in life that no one could do.

But, gods help him, since he had already failed as a father, he could do this one good thing as a chief. He could take the nest. He could, and he would.

* * *

><p>"Ev'ry bit the bull-headed, stubborn Viking you ever were."<p>

For the second time that day, Stoick the Vast cursed himself for the infernal Viking stubbornness and hubris that kept him mired in blind ignorance and denial. Surely he was the greatest fool in the archipelago and how could the gods forgive him for all he had said and everything he had done that day?

He watched in despair as the beast's foot crushed the ship beneath it and his only child disappeared in the troubled waters. Then he ran, the monstrosity forgotten, his duty to his warriors abandoned, intent on one thing only: Hiccup. He plunged into the water, almost gasping at the shocking cold, and dove, his powerful arms propelling him downward.

Hiccup was at the bottom, his arms slack and limp, his mouth open. Stoick reached out and yanked him toward the surface, a prayer running through his mind in dismal repetitions. _Odin, spare him, Odin, let him live..._

Hiccup retched, coughing up water and gasping for air. He sat up, his brow furrowed in surprise.

"Dad?"

But Stoick was already gone, streaking down toward the dragon. They faced each other for a moment, beneath the waves, and Stoick stilled. The weight of their shared history, generations of animosity and hostility between Vikings and dragons, lay between them, that history a raw and bleeding gash. He would have to be blind to ignore it. But there was Hiccup, ready to salve all wounds, to save them from themselves. And for Hiccup's sake, he could try to forgive. He gripped the collar, and pulled.

They shot toward the surface, the dragon not so much swimming as flying. Stoick crawled up onto the rocks, watching his son climb into the saddle with practiced ease. But Stoick wasn't ready to let him go so soon.

"Hiccup! I'm sorry. For...for everything."

Hiccup paused, nodding in contrition. "Yeah, me too."

"You don't have to go up there." _Please don't, son; your mother would never forgive me_.

"We're Vikings: it's an occupational hazard."

Stoick's heart swelled and then broke. "I'm proud...to call you my son."

"Thanks, Dad."

* * *

><p>"Oh son; I did this."<p>

For the third time that day, Stoick the Vast cursed himself for the utterly weak and feeble man he was, powerless to save his child. Around him the ash settled like snow, as if Hodr wept in the aftermath of the battle. Tears stung his cheeks, but he refused to wipe them away.

The dragon was alive and lowing softly, curled in weariness on the ground, the saddle empty and in ragged ruins. Stoick knelt some feet away, too ashamed to draw closer, and pleading with the gods that the dragon would end his miserable life quickly. He bowed his head, murmuring words that could never assuage his guilt.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The dragon lifted his head, blinking slowly and gazing at Stoick, pain and sorrow and wisdom and hope in his eyes. Then he unfurled his wings.

Hiccup was there, cradled like an infant. Stoick rushed forward, shame and dignity forgotten in the wild surge of hope that leaped in his chest. He took Hiccup in shaking arms, his body so small and light it was a featherweight in his hands. The boy's skin was warm to the touch, his muscles completely limp. Stoick wrenched off his helmet and put his ear to his son's chest, desperate for a sign.

It was there, faint but steady, the rhythm of his heart, his life.

"Ach, he's alive. You brought him back alive!"

The boy was hurt, badly. As Stoick held him, the habits of a vigilant chief returned, now subservient to those of a loving father. In his mind, he considered every possibility, every necessary action in the hours and days to come.

But time heals all wounds, every silvery scar a testament to deeds of greatness. Hiccup's blood was a salve to the injuries of war with the dragons, every drop precious and effectual.

For the fourth time that day, Stoick the Vast thanked the gods for another chance.

* * *

><p><strong> AN: Slightly different format and very different tone today. Let me know what you think! ****Also, I'm publishing the first chapter of an independent piece today, so keep your eyes open for that.**


	27. Chapter 27: When We Were Five

**Disclaimer: You guessed it, the usual. **

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 12: Thawfest**

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><p>"What? He started it. When we were five."<p>

Snotlout Jorgenson is my cousin. He's a few months older than me, bigger, taller, and a lot stronger. He also likes to gloat about how much stronger he is. And up until a few years ago, it was common knowledge that my dad would have preferred Snotlout as his heir and successor. That's all changed now; apparently, saving your tribe and turning the world upside down makes people look at you differently. But what hasn't changed is the fact that Snotlout is still older, bigger, taller, and stronger than me. And he still gloats.

My dad often says that responsibility and leadership are all about taking both the blame and the credit in equal parts. He also says that a good chief listens more than he speaks and only says what's necessary to get the job done. And finally, he says that in addition to being strong and brave and decisive, a chief has to be humble.

Mind you, Snotlout made a point of never gloating in front of my dad. Stoick the Vast as your uncle is only slightly less intimidating than Stoick the Vast as your father.

Now, because Snotlout is my cousin, because he's careful (most of the time) and doesn't gloat in front of my dad, and because my dad exercises his leadership skills (namely by not speaking unless he has to), I spent a lot of years unwillingly _playing _with Snotlout. Or, more truthfully, Snotlout played with me, because I was his favorite toy.

We didn't compete in Thawfest when we were five, but we knew what it was. At least, Snotlout knew, and at that tender age he was already training for it. When he trained for the sheep lug, I was the sheep. When older Vikings practiced the sapling pull in the woods, Snotlout buried my feet in wet sand and tried pulling me. And as for the axe-throwing contest...well, let's just say it wasn't pretty.

But where things got really bad was in the log-roll. Oh, yes, Snotlout just had to train for that one too. He wasn't allowed a real log, (because, really, who _would _give a five-year-old a log?) so he improvised, with the most convenient log-shaped object to hand. Namely, me.

I don't remember much about it, except that it started at the top of a very steep hill and ended several hours later when I woke up in bed with a broken arm. My dad was mad, I think, but other than informing Uncle Spitelout that it would be several years before Snotlout could actually compete in Thawfest, he didn't say much about it.

I avoided Snotlout as long as I could after that: self-defense and all. But when I did finally see him again, I couldn't have been more surprised. I came out of the log-rolling incident with a broken arm. He was less lucky: he'd broken his leg, and gotten several cuts, scratches, and a black eye. Gobber later told me the whole story: my arm broke when I hit a rock mid-roll, but Snotlout kept going, and he tripped and fell into a tangle of bramble bushes, breaking his leg in the process. Gobber also told me that as soon as Gothi finished setting my arm, my dad went out and gave Snotlout a thorough dressing-down for being reckless and using people as playthings.

After that, Snotlout kinda' forgot about Thawfest for a while, until we were old enough to compete. He still gloats about his string of victories, behind my dad's back of course. But ever since that year, he has never once trained with anything but sheep and saplings and real logs. And he addresses my dad with as much respect as he's capable of showing.


	28. Chapter 28: Early, Part 1

**Warning: This chapter depicts childbirth, though with as little gore and explicit detail as possible. Rated T for subject matter.**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own How to Train Your Dragon, but I'm hoping to get myself into Cressida Cowell's will.**

**From How to Train Your Dragon 2**

* * *

><p>"You came early into this world. You were such a wee thing: so frail, so fragile. I feared you wouldn't make it."<p>

It was the season of snows, Skadi's blanket covering the island in pearly, iridescent white like new linen sheets on a marriage bed. Beneath the piled drifts and glass-like stretches of ice, the villagers sat holed up in houses that were like islands themselves, isolated at times from their neighbors by the very substance that protected them from Njord's icy breath. From time to time, courageous souls would brave the outdoors, huddling together like lovers for warmth, their feet cutting trails that showed as wrinkles in the pristine white counterpane.

Snoggletog was long past, the mead-drinking and merry-making exchanged for the more painful business of mere survival. By day, Vikings congregated in the forge, the Great Hall, anywhere with a reasonably warm fire. But by night, they withdrew to their insufficient cottages, barricading themselves against the assault of winter.

The storms were the worst, rolling in off the sea to rage over the snow-bound island like a celestial lover's quarrel waged at the expense of mortals. Njord's fierce screams raced down the hillsides to claw and shriek at the buildings, icy fingers tearing off shingles and sending them flying with a strength born of fury. And Skadi would answer, her words a stinging, pelting maelstrom of snow and sleet that battered on the shutters and toppled trees under a weight of cold accusation.

It was on such a night that the labor pangs began.

Valka clutched her swollen stomach, heart laboring in the aftermath of unexpected pain and growing anxiety. It was too soon, much too soon.

The night deepened, the darkness filling with hope and pain and joy and bitter, clenching fear as the hours passed. She crouched, gasping, on the cold floor and held the midwife's hand tightly as the woman knelt over her, rubbing her back gently and murmuring the age-old words of the birthing rite. The contractions continued, increasing in frequency and intensity as the storm outside grew to a fever pitch, and Valka groaned, feeling the cry of the wind in her very core.

The midwife raised her voice, tilting the younger woman forward and instructing her to push. Valka knelt on hands and knees, gasping and screaming and calling on every god she knew to end it, end the pain that burned in her abdomen and loins.

Frigga heard and answered, presenting her gift in a rush of blood and membrane. The midwife caught the child and Valka waited, expectant, for the baby's cry.

When it came, it was weak and feeble, nearly drowned by the howling of the wind. The midwife placed the child, a boy, in his mother's arms, and Valka gasped. He was tiny, small enough she could wrap her thin fingers around his head, and his skin was reddish-purple and papery thin, almost translucent. He wailed weakly, eyes squeezed shut against the candlelight and small cries broken by gasping hiccups as his lungs labored for every breath. Valka rocked him slowly while the storm quieted and the sky began to lighten, her eyes filling with bitter tears as the question echoed in her mind.

How could Frigga give her a gift she could not hope to keep?

* * *

><p>Author's notes:<p>

1) I have never experienced childbirth personally, so my apologies if I've written something inaccurate or misleading.

2) Skadi is the goddess of winter, Njord is the god of wind and in Norse legend, they are the father and stepmother, respectively, of Freyr and Freyja, god and goddess of fertility.


	29. Chapter 29: Early, Part 2

**From How to Train Your Dragon 2.**

* * *

><p>Early, Part 2<p>

"But your father never doubted you'd be the strongest of us all."

The steps from the Great Hall were buried in the aftermath of the storm, tall grave mounds of drifted snow obstructing the path even as they gleamed faintly in the dawn light. Stoick fought his way through, clearing a path by dint of will and the brute strength in his legs and chest.

He'd been in the Great Hall most of the night, curtly sent on his way by the midwife after she'd taken one look at Valka's face. He'd waited out both storms, the conflict between Njord and Skadi as well as the turmoil of crazed anxiety and exuberant hope that had kept him pacing all night, torn between the gloom of a mourner and the euphoric joy of a young child. He knew, even without the fear in Valka's voice or the look on the midwife's face, that it was too early. It was much too early.

But despite the unfeeling image engendered by the implications of his name, Stoick was a man of deep, unspoken emotion, and there was hope in his heart. He quivered with it, every nerve afire as the wind howled and the night marched by in funereal procession.

Gobber had stayed with him, his seemingly limitless patience and endless supply of stories aided and abetted by copious quantities of mead. When dawn came, Stoick could wait no longer. He left Gobber snoring lustily, head pillowed on his tankard, and braved the snow, fighting off the icy claws that dragged at his cloak and slowed his way.

When he reached the house, he was breathing heavily, cold air rushing in and out of his lungs in clouds of steam that coated the front of his beard. He stilled for a moment before the door, listening anxiously and hearing nothing. His breath caught in his throat and he lifted the latch, pushing gently. It was dark inside, the shutters closed and the fire burned to embers. The midwife met him at the door, nodding mutely toward the bedroom, her face blank. Stoick moved slowly, heart beating fast in trepidation.

Valka lay in their bed, her face pale and lined, hair damp with the sweat of hard labor. A tiny bundle, obscured by the furs in which it was wrapped, lay on her chest, silent and unmoving beneath her clasped hands. Valka opened her eyes at her husband's approach, smiling tiredly in recognition. He bent down to kiss her forehead, cupping her cheek with a massive hand, and she shifted, gently moving the bundle until it rested in her arms and Stoick greeted his first-born son.

Odin, he was so tiny, his arms thinner than the smallest of Stoick's fingers. He was awake but quiet, forehead wrinkling and dark eyes staring upward in what might have been curiosity or sleepy confusion. Stoick's heart, strained from a night of weary vigil, swelled to bursting as he gazed at his child. He could sense Valka's trepidation as he lifted the tiny bundle in his arms and gasped: the boy was so light a tankard of mead would weigh more.

Stoick sat on the edge of the bed, still gazing fondly at his son. The baby stared back up at him, then he did something extraordinary: he began to cry, voicing his objection to Stoick's seated position with the same hiccuping wail as before. Stoick handed him back to Valka, a laugh quietly escaping his lips. She glanced at him, questioning.

"Hiccup," he said simply. "That's what we'll name him. We'll call him Hiccup."

Valka looked bemused. "Hiccup? Why?" she asked, her eyebrows quirked in mingled confusion and amusement.

"It's a family name after all," he replied, gazing at wife and son with intense love and pride in his eyes. "And, it suits him."

The baby was indeed a hiccup, as if Frigga had choked in a fit of laughter and given them the result. He was small and frail, and Stoick knew that life would be a struggle as Njord and Skadi made their peace and the winter slowly relinquished its hold on Berk. But he could pray, and he would, he would pray to every god in Midgard that there would be no funeral before spring.

And he knew, deep in his inmost being, that as frail and small as he was, if this little Hiccup lived through the winter, he would become a great Viking. Because hiccups are persistent; they hold on, they don't give up, and they keep coming back around.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes:<p>

1) This subject has been treated before, and quite well. I highly recommend "The Fourth Morning" by BarkBarkBarkour as another exploration of Hiccup's birth.

2) I'm not entirely certain that I quoted the line correctly, as it's been a few months since I saw the film in the theater. My apologies for any possible misquotation.


	30. Chapter 30: The Helmet Incident

**A/N: Every so often, I receive a request that I am, at first, reluctant to write. However, these requests create opportunities for extra creativity and I often end up liking them very much. Therefore, I am quite pleased to dedicate this chapter to Jesusfreak, with many thanks for the suggestion.**

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 16: Defiant One**

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><p>"Are we there yet?" Tuffnut whines. He's impatient, but when isn't he impatient?<p>

"No!" As usual, the chief's grumpy; I guess that's what happens when you're kid is a fish-bone who's constantly getting into trouble or danger. But the chief can just be grumpy and worry about Hiccup; I've got something on my mind, and it's a little bit more pressing than rescuing the Useless.

"I have to go to the bathroom." No point in beating around the bush; this is important, so I might as well just say it.

"You should've gone before we left," the chief says. Okay, he must be in a really bad mood. Tuffnut leans over to say something and Belch almost gets too close to Barf. Almost.

"That's what your helmet's for," he says. Hey, I never thought of that. Guess being impatient has taught Tuff a thing or two.

I pull off my helmet, 'cause now I'm getting kinda' desparate and there's really no time like the present. It's overcast, but so much the better: this is a delicate operation, and blinding sunlight would only make it harder. I reach into my satchel - right tools for the right job, okay - and Tuffnut gives me a really strange look when I pull out a small bottle.

"Fish oil," I explain tartly. He's never taken an interest in it before, so why now?

But now he's giving me all his attention. Great. As if it isn't hard enough already to do girl things, I have to do it with my brother watching, mid-flight over the ocean. Then again, in these circumstances this could turn out to be totally awesome.

I very carefully balance my helmet on top of Barf's head so I can see my reflection in it; he lets out a little bubble of gas, but he calms down right away when I pat his neck. Then I undo my braids and let my hair blow in the wind.

"What are you doing?" Tuffnut asks, his eyes as big as saucers. Even though we're twins, we don't do _everything _together and he doesn't often see me without my braids.

"Letting down my hair...in case I need to strangle someone," I answer, and his eyes get even bigger.

"If you're planning on strangling Snotlout when we find him, I'll help," he says, but he always says things like that and nobody takes him seriously, not even me.

I'm not _planning _on strangling anybody with my hair, though I might do it someday. I'm doing something far more important. Picking up the bottle of fish oil, I dribble a little onto my hand. I'm just about to put the stopper back in when everything explodes. Tuffnut's been watching so closely, he's distracted and Belch is way too close to Barf. So Barf snaps at Belch and my helmet comes loose and goes flying through the air, knocking the fish oil out of my hand. Helmet and bottle sail up, spinning and twirling and spraying oil in every direction.

When it's all over, my helmet is back on my head and coated inside and out, the bottle's long gone, and me, Tuff, Barf, and Belch are covered with oil. Tuff sits there for a few seconds, mouth wide open in that stupid, slack-jawed face he makes, then he starts bouncing around, fist-pumping and bashing his helmet against mine and making Belch sway and twist.

"That was so awesome!" he yells. "Did you see how far that oil sprayed? Let's do it again...and this time, let's see how many of the others we can spray."

"We can't, my fish oil's gone." It _was _awesome, and Tuffnut has a good idea every now and then. It's a shame all the oil's gone.

"What were you going to do with it anyway?" he asks.

"Put it in my hair."

"In your hair?"

"Uh, yeah," I say, squeezing my hair out and re-braiding it. "You boys might be able to keep up the greasy, unwashed look without trying, but we girls need a little help."

"Oh," he says, then he starts thinking. He really should stop doing that: it never ends well. "Next time, let's spray Astrid," he says slyly.

Speaking of Astrid, she and the others are arguing about something that's probably not very important, until the chief starts yelling again.

"Enough!" he shouts. "Those boys are probably stranded at sea. We fly close to the water!"

Yes. That is okay with me. "Good," I say, "because I really need to rinse out my helmet."


	31. Chapter 31: The Trapper

**A/N: Fluff head-canon for some of Eret's back-story. **

**Disclaimer: Sadly, How to Train Your Dragon still belongs to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From How to Train Your Dragon 2. **

* * *

><p>"Drago gave me this the last time I turned up empty-handed. He promised to be less understanding in the future."<p>

Dragon-trapping's not safe, and it's not easy. It pays well, up to a point, but that's little compensation when you lose a limb and can't earn your living any more. You get used to fawning before egotistic, maniacal tyrants; never staying in one place too long; having to do everything but beg for your fee; avoiding islands where the people are worse than the dragons; and you trust no one, except your crew. If you can even trust them. It's a hard life; nobody would ever embrace it willingly.

It wasn't always this way. There were younger days, happy days at home. Life was a privilege then, not a punishment. There was brave talk and bravado, with no fear of banishment; games and hi-jinks, without fear of consequence. We embraced the hunt, because it was _fun_. Because the danger made it all worthwhile. And because it meant freedom, for a few days at a time, from responsibility, from expectation, and from the restraints of a restrictive tribe with a peace-loving old fool for a chief.

But there's an old saying that the hunter will eventually be hunted, and he who lays a trap will be caught in his own snare. Well, I was caught at it and, apparently, dragon-trapping wasn't a socially acceptable amusement in the tribe; I was banished, exiled from my home to make my way in the world.

It's so easy to be hopeful, to think you can own the horizon along with your newfound independence, until one day you wake up and realize you're trapped, stuck under somebody's thumb with absolutely no idea how to get out. That's what happened between me and Drago; now I do his dirty work and he pays me for it. Or punishes me when I fail.

You dragon riders have no idea what you're dealing with. Drago's powerful, he's cunning, and he has no scruples. And he doesn't like to be surprised, or told no. I warn you, if you deal with him, you'll be under his thumb too. But try to surprise him and he will kill you, without mercy or conscience.


	32. Chapter 32: Option Three

**Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon belongs to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. I'm only borrowing the characters. **

**From Defenders of Berk, Episode 15: A Tale of Two Dragons**

* * *

><p>"Do I even wanna' know what option three is?" Hiccup asked, staggering under the weight of the mace his father had casually tossed into his arms.<p>

"Oh, it's quite devious, and could have grisly repercussions," Stoick warned. "Then again, it can go down like a treat. Odds are about fifty-fifty either way."

Hiccup paused, thinking. "Uh- I'm listening."

"You trick them into working together." Stoick tapped the side of his nose and winked. "Like the time I had to use option three to resolve a dispute between Bucket and Mulch."

"What, Bucket and Mulch _argued_?" Hiccup asked, finding the idea hard to believe. Astrid and Snotlout argued all the time; he just didn't understand why this time they were at each other's throats.

"Oh, yes. In fact, there was a time when they weren't friends at all. Quite the opposite, actually. They used to argue every time they met, until I started gettin' complaints from all over the island about the two of them, and decided enough was enough." Stoick paused, thoughtfully thumbing his axe-blade. "This was around the same time that we were rebuildin' the armory. It had gotten burned down in a dragon raid. So, before we started building, I put Mulch in charge of layin' shingles on one side of the roof. What I didn't tell him, was that I also had Bucket layin' shingles on the other side."

Hiccup looked up at his father, green eyes wide. "What happened?"

Stoick grinned broadly. "Well, both o' them had their hammers and pegs - right tools an' all - and I told them, individually o' course, that theirs was an importan' job; they had to do it right, or risk the roof leakin' in a storm an' all our weapons rusting. That and the chief was countin' on 'em."

Hiccup couldn't resist a cheeky grin. "And they actually took you seriously?"

"Heh? This is Bucket an' Mulch we're talkin' about," Stoick reminded him with a frown.

Sobered, Hiccup nodded submissively. "True. But go on; what happened next?"

"When work started next day, both o' them went about it as if theirs were the most importan' jobs in the hist'ry of small home repair; and come to think of it, they might be." Stoick reached up to scratch his head absently. "Why, if the shingles aren't cut and laid properly, the snow would get through come winter, or the dragons' claws would put holes in all the roofs - as has happened in the past; don't think for a minute I've forgotten that one yet." This was delivered with a firm wag of one meaty finger, and Hiccup made a face. His father had to keep bringing up _that_ incident.

"Come on, dad, let's just get back to the story," he soothed, refilling his father's mug. "You were saying..."

"What was I saying? Oh yes, Bucket and Mulch both put their heads down and worked. They spent all mornin' like that, heads down, intent on the shingles, never once lookin' up or exchangin' so much as a single insult or joke with anyone else, not even Gobber." Stoick took a long pull from his mug, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. "And ya know, son, they did a good job of it, workin' their way upwards, each on one side of the roof, layin' shingles and hammering, and not complainin' or quarrelin' with anyone. Until they reached the top."

By this time, Hiccup was all but sitting on his father's knee, intent on the story and looking for all the world like a child of seven again, listening to one of Gobber's ridiculous troll stories.

"What happened when they reached the top?" he asked quietly. "Did they fight? Did they attack each other?"

"No, son," his father answered, putting his hand on Hiccup's shoulder. "They looked at each other for a few minutes, then both of them brought their hammers down in a mighty swing and pegged the very last shingle. Unfortunately, Bucket lost his footing on the swing and fell off his ladder."

Hiccup raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Is that how he cracked his skull?"

"Oh no, that happened a few years later, during an incident with some sheep and a catapult. But he did start sliding down the roof, and he might've hurt himself badly if Mulch hadn't caught him by the hair and let 'im down slowly.

Hiccup shuddered, not wanting to dwell on the implications of that statement. "Did they get along then? After that?"

"Well, Bucket punched Mulch in the eye and called 'im an idiot for pullin' his hair, and then Mulch shoved Bucket over and called him a numbskull for losin' his balance in the first place. After that, they shook hands an' helped each other up, and they've been friends ever since." Stoick gave Hiccup a pat on the back, nearly knocking him over, and stood. "Just remember what I said, son, about option three: fifty-fifty odds, but at least ya can get some work done."

"Yeah, thanks," Hiccup nodded, watching his father disappear into the bedroom and reflecting on their conversation. _One man per side..._ It was an intriguing thought, and one worth greater contemplation. But even with the veritable merits of option three in the case of Bucket and Mulch, he couldn't possibly imagine Astrid making up with Snotlout if he so much as touched her hair.


	33. Chapter 33: Stump Day

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to I Love Dragons, who sent me such a polite request I simply could not refuse. **

**Disclaimer: I still don't own How to Train Your Dragon. **

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 19: We Are Family, Part 1**

* * *

><p>"Best week in the year, eh Gobber?"<p>

"Right up there with Stump Day!"

* * *

><p>"Ahhhhh, Stump Day...the only holiday established purely for the purpose of killin' two birds with one stone, as the sayin' goes. Ya see, kids, after seven generations of dragons raids and rebuildin' the village time an' again, there've been plen'y o' trees cut down and more 'an a few stumps left behind to show for it.<p>

Most people couldn't be bothered to do anythin' about the stump problem, until they ran afoul of a stump somewhere and came back bruised an' bloody. Old, rotten stumps ready ta give way when ya put a foot in 'em; brand new, razor-sharp stumps waitin' ta slice through your boots; stumps buried under a few inches o' dirt just bidin' their time ta pop up for some unsupectin' soul ta stub a toe. Time was when ya could hardly leave your front door-step without trippin' on some blasted stump. I tell ye, it was all-out war, just like with the dragons, them against us, every man for 'imself, and don't let 'em catch you nappin'."

Someone in the audience snickered, and Gobber frowned in the offender's general direction.

"So the chief says ta me one day, 'Gobber, we 'ave got to do somethin' about all those stumps'. An' I says ta him, 'Let's jus' pull 'em out'. But the chief goes on an' says, 'But I don't know what we can do; we could burn 'em, or shave 'em off at the ground, or find all the buried once an' put markers 'round 'em'. An' I says again, 'We could pull 'em out'. Then the chief sits down with the gloomiest of faces and takes a pull from my tankard, and then he says, 'I don't know which are worse: the dragons or the stumps'."

By this time the snicker had grown until it was an outright chuckle. Gobber gave the entire audience a baleful glare, and continued.

"Then I sits down beside 'im, claps my stump on 'is back, an' says, 'Why don't we jus' pull 'em out?' Then he finally sits up with a smile on 'is face an' says, 'I've got it: we'll pull the stumps!' Then I, being the diplomatic fellow that I am, nods and smiles and pulls _this _out o' my back pocket!"

A gasp met this declaration and its accompanying accessory. For Gobber had revealed the largest iron hook any of his young listeners had ever seen, and proudly fitted it into his stump. He waved it back and forth, its polished surface glittering in the sunlight, the reflections dancing over the small assembly.

"Needless to say, this little beauty took care o' every stump on the island in no time. An' the chief was so pleased that he established Stump Day, a holiday to honor those of us who 'ave lost limbs and gained valuable and unique skills in exchange."


	34. Chapter 34: A Few Tweaks, Part 1

**Disclaimer: _How to Train Your Dragon_ belongs to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. **

**From How to Train Your Dragon.**

**A Few Tweaks, Part 1: Gobber's Handiwork and Hiccup Flair**

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><p>"Turns out all we needed was a little more...this."<p>

"You just gestured to all of me."

"Well, most of you. That bit's my handiwork. With a little Hiccup flair thrown in. You think it'll do?"

"I might make a few tweaks."

* * *

><p>Hiccup sat in his little workshop at the back of the forge, left leg propped on a stool in front of him. It had been three weeks since he'd rejoined the land of the living, minus a foot and plus a pile of new-found respect. He'd mostly gotten over the difficulties of relearning how to walk, and his stump was nearly healed and toughened enough that it no longer hurt on every step. But there were other things that bothered him still, and he was back in the forge for the first time since the battle. Toothless sat in front of him, tail curled around himself as he laid his head on his forelegs and watched his rider. Hiccup worked quietly, his leg still propped up and notebook in his lap, sketching and planning and thinking out loud.<p>

"Spring coil...jointed frame, socket attached with a pin. Hmm, that must've taken a while, drilling a hole that small... And then there's the spring..." He thought for a moment, chin in his hand. "See, Toothless," he said, gesturing to his leg, "the spring is strong enough, but the distribution of weight is uneven. Too much pressure on the toe, and the spring coils up too tight. Too much pressure on the heel, and the spring doesn't coil enough. Either way, it puts my knee in an awkward position, which would probably explain why I keep falling down every few steps."

Toothless gurgled, his ears rising on the back of his head.

"And you're right, bud, the angle of the stirrup is wrong. It's part of the reason we're having so much trouble with turns. Of course, turns wouldn't be so rough if you didn't always wait until the last possible minute."

Toothless yawned, flexing his powerful shoulders in a very passable imitation of a shrug and blinking sleepily. Hiccup shook his head and held up the finished sketch for the dragon to peruse.

"You're impossible, you know that? But really, what do you think?"

Toothless lifted his head and gave the notebook an experimental sniff, then rose with all the agile speed of a cat and drew his long, wet tongue up the boy's face. Hiccup instinctively jumped back and toppled off his bench, landing flat on his back with Toothless leaning over him blinking and cooing.

"_Oof_," he wheezed. "Okay, you win, mister bossy. Now get off of me!"

The dragon backed away as he stood gingerly, still careful to favor his left leg, and leaned against the work bench. He set the notebook on its surface, studying the completed sketch. Toothless crouched beside him, sniffing the smudged and scattered papers that littered the bench. Hiccup patted him absently, still intent on his designs.

"Do you think we can do it, bud? Gobber won't mind if we change a few things, or even if we raid his stash of scrap. Besides, safer foot means safer flight, which should make my zealously over-protective dad happy."

He looked down at the dragon, who returned his gaze, cooing contentedly. Hiccup smiled.

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

He hobbled slowly out to the main shop, where Toothless revived the dying embers in the forge with a puff of hot breath. Hiccup rummaged through the bins of scrap metal, pulling out rusted axe blades, chipped swords, dented shields, and the occasional cracked cooking pot in search of the perfect piece. With a cry of satisfaction he unearthed the ideal item, holding it up triumphantly to show Toothless. It was a mace on a splintered handle, half of its spikes crushed and blunt, the head no longer spherical.

Hiccup set to work eagerly, melting, hammering, bending, and shaping, his energies once again devoted to a work of invention. Behind him, a curious and all but ignored Toothless sniffed, licked, pawed, and explored everything in sight, putting his nose everywhere it had no right to be. He paid no notice to Hiccup's repeated admonishments to settle down. When he started knocking down the shelving and upsetting the stacks of tools, Hiccup chased him, limping around on his bad leg and pleading with the dragon to stop. Then Toothless put his nose in the slack tub...

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><p><strong>To be continued...<strong>


	35. Chapter 35: A Few Tweaks, Part 2

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 16: Defiant One**

**A Few Tweaks, Part 2: The Metal Leg and Everything Attached to It.**

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><p>"Hiccup's so smart, Hiccup's so brave. He killed the Red Death, he trained the dragons. He's got the metal leg!"<p>

"Metal leg? That's what's bothering- that's where you're going? Metal leg?"

"No! It's everything the leg is attached to."

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><p>That was how Gobber found them, Hiccup sitting completely drenched in an alarmingly large pool of water on the floor, leaning his arm against the overturned slack tub. Toothless sat in front of him, attempting to lick him dry, and only succeeding in leaving large smears of dragon saliva in his hair. Hiccup still held the heavy iron tongs in his hand, a bent and cooling gear socket grasped tightly between them. Around them, the forge was a mess: tools everywhere, the scrap bins virtually emptied, and a layer of shiny dragon slobber coating nearly every surface. Gobber surveyed the damage with a critical eye, rubbing his bristly mustache with his one hand.<p>

"Should I even ask what Terrible Terror or thunderin' typhoon laid waste ta my shop, lad?" he queried at last.

Hiccup looked up sheepishly, his mouth twisting in a most distressed manner.

"Trolls?" he mumbled in a small voice, hoping Gobber might appreciate an old, long-shared joke.

Gobber bent down so he could look the boy in the eye.

"Trolls, is it? Right ye are, lad. Only these trolls happen ta have names; one of 'em even has wings. And one of 'em no longer has any need for left socks. Might ye know who these trolls are, eh?"

Hiccup hung his head and nodded slowly, not daring to make eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Gobber; it- it won't happen again. And I'll clean it up, all of it, I promise. And- and Toothless won't ever come inside the forge again."

Gobber lifted him gently and set him back on his feet, ignoring the feebly muttered protests of 'indignity' and 'not a baby any more'. He stood back then, arm crossed over stump, and looked his apprentice up and down. At just barely fifteen, he was skinny, wispy-haired, and sporting both that crooked smile that made him look eight years younger and the prosthesis that marked him a man among men; but he was still Hiccup, still the scrawny youngster Gobber had taken under his wing so long ago. And still quite adept at getting into trouble.

"Listen ta Gobber, lad: if it's too soon ta be comin' back, then it's too soon. I've missed you, and your smart mouth and clever hands, but you just take your time 'til you're good an' ready. Besides, what with the war over, there's less need now for weapons and less work 'round here."

As Gobber spoke, Hiccup's face fell; he fidgeted nervously, tapping his metal foot on the tool-cluttered floor until the sturdy blacksmith had finished.

"It- it's not that, Gobber," he whispered, eyes on the floor.

"Then what is it?" Gobber asked, never one to beat about the bush.

A pause. "It's the foot," he said at last. "It, um...this is a bit hard to explain..."

"I know what this is," Gobber replied. "Well, there's no need to explain _or _ask; you know you can come in here any time to work on it." He knelt down in front of the boy and put a hand on his shoulder, speaking humbly. "I'm set in my ways, Hiccup, an' it's hard for this old dog ta learn new tricks. If that foot o' yours is givin' you trouble, then change it and don't worry about what I think of it. You keep experimentin', lad, keep makin' it better; who knows, mebbe someday you'll make yourself a foot with toes an' all."

Hiccup squirmed uncomfortably, a telltale flush creeping up his neck.

"That _was _part of it, Gobber," he admitted quietly, "but right now, the biggest problem is that I'm stuck."

"Oh, a mechanical problem?" Gobber guessed, brightening.

Hiccup sighed.

"No, actually. My- my foot is stuck."

Gobber looked down, and so it was: somehow, in the midst of his tapping and fidgeting, Hiccup had gotten the bottom of the foot tangled up in a leather shield handle and an especially large cast iron chain link. Any move of the foot and Hiccup would be dragging half his own weight along behind him. Gobber threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, his entire body shaking with amusement. Hiccup scratched the back of his head in embarrassment.

"Ha ha ha," he muttered sarcastically, "here's Hiccup the Viking, trying to bulk up the hard way."

"Hahahahaha, Hiccup, hohoho, you- you sure can say that again," Gobber wheezed, fat tears leaking from under his wrinkly eyelids. "You said stuck, and you meant it!"

Hiccup crossed his arms over his narrow chest and frowned in annoyance.

"Could we...maybe save the hilarity for later, Gobber? 'Cause it's not really that funny down here. And I'd kinda' like to get out of this mess."

Gobber let out his last few chortles and wiped his eyes, bending down to extricate the foot from shield handle and chain. The shield came off easily enough, the leather stretching to accommodate the width of the metal frame. The chain, on the other hand...

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><p><strong>To be continued...<strong>


	36. Chapter 36: A Few Tweaks, Part 3

**From Gift of the Night Fury.**

**A Few Tweaks, Part 3: Good Morning, Mister Bossy**

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><p>"Stupid leg! Ahh, thanks buddy, I'm okay. Yeah, we- we can go flying now."<p>

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><p>They had three hands and a hook between the two of them, yet after fifteen minutes' worth of wiggling, Hiccup was still firmly stuck. They had tried everything they could think of: Hiccup had wiggled his leg, shaken it firmly, and bent it in every angle he could manage, sitting or standing. Gobber had fished around with the point of his hook, nearly getting it stuck. He'd squeezed his fingers in between chain and foot and gotten them pinched for his trouble. When all else failed, he even resorted to spitting profusely on the metal, much to Hiccup's dismay, in an effort to lubricate the foot. Nothing worked, and the chain link remained stuck like a child on its mother's apron strings.<p>

Throughout their Herculean efforts, Toothless had sat upright with his head cocked to one side, letting out a deep bass yowl from time to time. He was watching, his intelligent green eyes flicking back and forth from Gobber to Hiccup, with an occasional glance spared at the untidy mess on the floor of the forge. He yawned, suddenly bored, and lay down on one of the few available patches of clear space on the floor, his eyes closing for sleep.

The movement caught Hiccup's attention. He looked over at Toothless, his face creasing in a thoughtful frown, his memory racing back to that first night in the cove.

"Hey, Gobber," he said, the wheels turning in his active brain. "I think I've got an idea."

"Eh?" Gobber looked up wearily from where he sat half-draped over a short barrel. "If it involves tryin' ta file the chain down, my answer's no; that'd take you all night. An' me best file's probably buried under a pile of other tools righ' now."

"It doesn't involve a file, but a fire." Hiccup scrambled up, until he was kneeling on his right knee. "Could we melt the chain?"

Gobber shook his head. "Oh, lad...that's even a wee bit too dangerous for me. Besides, we could nae get a fire hot enough on the floor without burnin' the whole place down."

"Toothless could do it," Hiccup answered quickly, the certainty evident in his voice. "He can scorch the earth to make himself a warm place to sleep, he can do it."

"I don't know, lad," Gobber said, scratching his chin. "You know 'im better than me. It could work, or we could both end up burnt to a crisp."

"Let's just try it," Hiccup responded, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. "Toothless, wake up. I need you."

The dragon yawned again and stretched luxuriously, knocking over a stack of helmets with a noisy clatter. Ignoring the noise, he wandered forward to sniff the foot and chain. Hiccup put a hand on his head and looked in his eyes.

"Hey, bud...can you do something for me? I need you to burn, right here." He pointed downward at the source of all the trouble, and Toothless lowered his head, sniffing again. His nose wrinkled and he licked the foot, leaving a trail of slobber on the bottom of Hiccup's trousers.

"Come on, Toothless," Hiccup encouraged. "Just a little bit of steady flame."

But Toothless apparently wasn't in the mood to be helpful. He raised his head and licked Hiccup's face again, snuffling and nudging until Hiccup lost his already precarious balance and toppled backward. Then it was all-out war: Toothless engaged in a bold frontal assault of licking, nuzzling, and pawing. Hiccup retreated at first, frantically backing away from the dragon's insistent tongue, dragging the heavy chain along with him. Then he regrouped, summoning all his forces of cunning and dexterity to attack the aggressor.

Gobber roared with renewed laughter at the conflict in front of him. Toothless was controlling the battle, pinning his squirming victim down with his superior size and strength, but not for long. As Gobber watched, Hiccup wriggled, diving further under the dragon's belly and reaching up to tickle his wings with both hands. Toothless snorted at the minor irritation and bent his head in an effort to lick Hiccup again.

But the boy was too far under him, tickling and wriggling and forcing the dragon to move. Toothless backed up, stomping his muscular legs and roaring in annoyance at his defeat, his growls joining Hiccup and Gobber' peals of laughter. They were silenced by a sudden loud _crack_, and Hiccup sat bolt upright, dismay written on his face.

"Oh no," he whispered, "Toothless, what did you do?"

Gobber crawled forward to inspect the damage, fearing the worst. Sure enough, Toothless had stepped on the metal foot, snapping the linchpin and socket under his weight. Gobber pulled the wreckage off the remains of the wooden cuff and held it up for Hiccup to see. With the movement, the frame suddenly slid free of the chain link, as if from a well-oiled gear socket.

Gobber chuckled. "I could get used to havin' dragons around," he said. "Useful creatures when you're in a tight spot."

Toothless, now sitting upright with an alarmingly smug smile on his face, gurgled happily. Beside him, Hiccup did his best to sit up. He was more drenched than ever, and his hair was plastered to his head with copious amounts of dragon slobber. He crossed his arms and glared at Toothless.

"Thanks for nothing, bud," he growled, then sighed. "What is my dad gonna' say when he sees the mess we've made? And when he sees _this_." He gestured expressively to the ruined prosthesis.

Gobber stood and stroked his mustache, thinking. "You know, Hiccup," he said slowly, "your dad don't need ta see this place 'til it's tidied up. And as for this-" he waved the bent socket and frame in the air, "well, it looks like it could use a few tweaks."

Hiccup grinned, gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, Gobber," he said, and he meant it.

The three of them spent the rest of the day together, Hiccup hopping around the shop on an improvised crutch, straightening shelves, organizing tools, and setting the place to rights. Toothless sat in the doorway, his eyes never leaving his rider. And Gobber moved between anvil and workbench, bending, shaping, and building. Hiccup's new designs were fetched and both studied them, carving, crafting, and discussing finer points of angle, measurement, and proportion, until the sun went down and Hiccup climbed up the hill to his home, Toothless at his side and the crutch left behind.

Gobber watched them go, smiling to himself. It was not a bad day's work he'd done, he considered. Not bad at all.


	37. Chapter 37: Ideas

**A/N: Apologies in advance for this plotless and completely irreverent bit of fluff. Thanks, Yondaime Namikaze, for the suggestion, and forgive me: this is probably not what you had in mind, but it is nevertheless dedicated to you.**

**From Riders of Berk, Episode 5: In Dragons We Trust**

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><p>Idea no. 1: Keep all of your friends up way past their normal bedtimes.<p>

"We're going on night patrol."

Idea no. 2: Get Tuffnut wound up about being up past his bedtime.

"Night patrol? I love it! What is it?"

Idea no. 3: Invite the dragons.

"It's where we patrol...at night...to keep an eye on the dragons, and make sure they don't get blamed for anything else."

Idea no. 4: Don't tell the grown-ups. Especially the Ingermans.

"Um, have you cleared this with our parents? Because some of us might not be allowed out after a certain hour."

Idea no. 5: Get Snotlout to tell a few ghost stories.

"Not allowed? Or afraid?"

Idea no. 6: Turn out the lights.

"Hey, things _happen _after dark."

Idea no. 7: Positive peer pressure. If you need to, use it.

"Guys, we have to do this. You heard Mildew: he wants the dragons banished."

Idea no. 8: Bring the water guns. Have Ruffnut ask about water balloons, if you can.

"Permission to shoot first and ask questions later."

Idea no. 9: Okay, just bring the balloons. The more, the merrier.

"Permission to skip the question."

Idea no. 10: Water guns are out. Definitely bring the balloons.

"We're just patrolling. Nobody is shooting anyone."

Idea no. 11: Don't tell Tuffnut everything you're planning ahead of time. He's a bit of a wet blanket.

"I have a question: what's fun about that?"

Idea no. 12: Make sure everybody knows this isn't Astrid's party.

"It's not supposed to be fun. It's a Hiccup idea."

Idea no. 13: Do it again next year.

"Exactly! What?"

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><p>It was the best sleepoverwater war they'd ever had. Even the dragons had a good time.

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><p><strong>AN: It is with a heavy heart that I must announce that this is the final chapter of this series, Random Words of Wisdom. Thanks are due to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, or followed, but especially to biancaruth and Yondaime Namikaze for their frequent kind words and much support.**

**Keep your eyes open for my upcoming story _Hidden_, a multi-chapter work set two years after the end of How to Train Your Dragon 2. You can s**ee my profile page for a full summary. **It should be finished in a few short weeks, at which time I will begin publishing it. **

**Until then, I remain very sincerely yours,**

**Constantinus**


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